4th Annual 25 Days of Hurt Sam
by Center of the Galaxy
Summary: A collection of holiday hurt!Sam stories based on prompts. Requests are CLOSED! Updated daily. Chapter 22: Nothing about this case is normal.
1. Snowfall

_**Author's Note:**_ _Can you believe it? It's already this time of year! I know I haven't been posting as much as I used to and I wish I had more time to update my stories, but finally, it's time for what will be known as the "4_ _th_ _Annual 25 Days of Hurt Sam"! It's been four years since I started doing this and I'm so happy that you guys look forward to this just as much as I do._

 _But what is this, you ask? Well, this is my Christmas gift to all of you! Have a Christmas plot bunny hopping around but no time to write it yourself? Do you have a perfect holiday themed story but no time to write it? Well, you are in the right place. Beginning December 1_ _st_ _and going until New Years, I will be writing holiday hurt!Sam stories based on prompts that you submit to me. The past few collections have been so much fun so let's make this year awesome too!_

 _Of course, I have a few ground rules. This collection is based on prompts. To submit a prompt, simply leave it in a review._ _ **Do not PM me,**_ _as I do not have PM turned on. Prompts can consist of a word (ex: tinsel) or a phrase (ex: Sam always thought that Christmas was the one time where he could pretend to be normal) or even a situation (ex: Charlie gets lost in a snowstorm. Dean is MIA on a hunt with Cas so a sick-from-the-Trials Sam goes after her himself)._

 _In order for your prompt to be fulfilled you must follow the following rules:_

 _I am a gen author._ _ **I do not write slash of any kind**_ _. Sorry! I do write cannon pairings though._

 _ **I do not accept M-rated prompts.**_ _Nothing about extreme torture or abuse or rape, etc._

 _ **Sam must be hurt in this story.**_ _You can tell me how you want him to be hurt (i.e. fever, broken leg, the Trials, etc.) or you can leave it up to me. Either way, Sam will be getting the brunt of the damage and someone else will be taking care of him. That doesn't mean other people can't be hurt too. I've done prompts where Charlie and/or Dean have been hurt too, but most of the focus will be on Sam's injuries._

 _ **Please do not submit multiple prompts.**_ _I want to write as many stories for as many people as I can. If you change your mind and submit another prompt, I will ignore your earliest one and go with the latest prompt. If you have lots of ideas and want me to pick, list them out and I will pick my favorite._

 _ **Your prompt must have something to do with Holidays.**_ _Pick any aspect of this time of year and make your prompt revolve around that._

 _ **Prompts are fulfilled in a first come, first serve basis.**_ _I will also be closing prompts at the end of November to be sure I have enough time to get through them all by Christmas._

 _Phew, that's a lot of stuff to get through, huh? I'm really excited to see what you guys come up with this year. To start us off, here is a story I've been saving to share with all of you! It's set season 8, post "LARP and the Real Girl". Enjoy!_

* * *

" _Sometimes I wished I lived in a snow globe_

 _Where the wind blows_

 _It's wonderful_

 _And every single time that you shake it_

 _You'll make it_

 _So beautiful."_

— _Matt Wertz, "Snow Globe"_

* * *

Charlie can't help but feel like she's a bother to the Winchesters.

"Really, Dean, it's fine," She protests as the eldest Winchester rolls out from underneath her car, "I can take it to a mechanic—"

"Wrench." He ignores her as he holds his hand out to Sam, the youngest brother handing him a wrench from the tool kit. Dean rolls back underneath her car and Charlie sighs somewhat.

She had only intended to stay with them a few days.

Really, she just wanted to stop by to give them their Christmas presents. It was only a week until the holiday and she'd spent a good month actually debating whether or not to get them something. Sure, they'd saved her life, but did that actually mean they liked her? You know, as a person? She wasn't exactly sure where she stood with the two of them. She'd figured gauging their reaction of her presents was the best way to tell. So, she'd driven four hours nonstop and showed up at the bunker unannounced and much to the surprise of the two brothers. They'd hugged her and invited her in and she felt like things were perking up.

But then her car died as she tried to leave. She'd been devastated as she tried to get her beloved yellow car to work for her, but the engine kept stalling and after hitting the steering wheel a few times, she admitted defeat. Hacking into military websites? Easy. Fixing a car? She was out of her depth.

So, sheepishly, she told the boys that she might need to stay a few more nights just until she could get her car fixed and would that be okay? To her surprise, Dean had grabbed his tools and headed outside, Sam trailing behind her.

Which leads to now—watching the two Winchesters try and force her car back into the realm of the living.

Sam smiles at her, a smile that seemed to warm her entire being, "Don't worry about it Charlie."

Charlie has been alone for most of her life. After losing her parents, she drifted from place to place, assuming false identities, burying her feelings in LARP-ing and online hacking jobs. She's never been good at letting other people take care of her. Hell, sometimes she feels like she can barely take care of herself. She used to wish upon shooting stars that she'd one day find a new family to love her. But as the years passed and she kept losing people, she let her heart harden. She used sass and pop culture references as a defense—a barrier to anyone that tried to get close—but somehow, someway, the two Winchesters had wormed their way into her heart.

The thought of losing them—or being rejected by them—terrified her. They were the closest things to family she has right now. If she could just somehow show them how much she actually cares . . .

"Okay," Dean rolls back out and sits up, handing the wrench back to Sam, "Good news, nothing looks broken underneath."

"Then, why isn't it working?" She questions softly, "I mean you've already checked the engine and nothing was wrong there either." She tilts her head to the side, slightly confused, "What else could it be?"

"Not sure," Dean shrugs, "But I'll check it over again tomorrow." He gets up and flexes, stretching after being in such a confined space for so long.

"You really don't have to—" She begins to insist. She doesn't want to be a burden. She doesn't want Dean or Sam to resent her down the line.

But Dean just smiles and ruffles her hair, "It's fine, Charlie."

And when she sees a matching grin on Sam's lips, she feels positive.

Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't be alone anymore.

* * *

Charlie figures that since it looks like she'll be with the boys until Christmas, she might as well surprise them and decorate the bunker. As she explores the endless, twisting corridors, she ends up finding a room full of packed away boxes. As she investigates them, she finds a box packed with dated, but still usable Christmas decorations.

At the bottom of the box is a snow globe.

As Charlie turns it, the crystal sparkles in the light. In the middle of the snow globe is a tiny, painted Christmas tree with bright ornaments on it. As she cranks the small dial on the bottom, the tree turns as "Jingle Bells" plays. It brings a grin to Charlie's face. As she watches the tree turn, she sighs somewhat, "I just wish I could do something for them."

She doesn't see the star on top of the tree light up as she places the snow globe back into the box.

* * *

When she wakes up the next morning, the bunker is deserted.

"Sam?" She calls as she moves into the kitchen, "Dean?"

She spends the next twenty minutes searching for them throughout the entire bunker, but they're nowhere to be seen. Her heart sinks as dread courses through her entire being. Had they left her? Was this their not so subtle way of telling her that she wasn't wanted?

"No," She shakes her head, resolve hardening, "No, it's not like that."

They like her. At least, she thinks they do. She just needs to calm down and find them. That's easy, right?

"I can do this." She just needs to be confident, like she is whenever she's Queen. She will find them and she'll find out for once and for all where she stands with them.

She just needs to find them first.

* * *

She searches the bunker thoroughly, leaving no corridor unchecked. She can't see any signs of a struggle in either of the boys' rooms so they had to be okay, or at least, they were when they left. After that, she gets on her laptop and activates their phones' GPS, hoping that she'll get some answers. What she does find out is more baffling.

"What?" She checks her results once more, but it still says the same thing. Both of the boys are in the bunker somewhere. That can't be though—she called both of their cellphones and neither one rang. Plus, she's searched every room and she didn't see their cellphones left behind. How could that be?

Still, she decides to check again. Armed with the location of Dean's cellphone, she makes her way down the different hallways before finally ending up in a room that she hasn't seen before. It's freezing—the redhead shivers in her thin grey top and jeans. And as she looks up, she can see snow falling from the ceiling.

"What the fuck?" She breathes.

"Charlie?"

"Dean!"

Dean is slumped over against the wall, his lips nearly blue, a hand loosely tossed over his side.

As she rushes over to him, she sees the crimson staining his fingertips—blood. Her heart skips a beat and she sees the room spinning before her. She's never been good with seeing people she cares about hurt and Dean is no exception. Still, she forces her to get a grip and ignore the fear.

"Y'kay?" Dean questions, his voice slurring. His eyes flutter shut and she quickly rips off a piece of shirt, using the fabric as a makeshift compress as she applies pressure to his wound.

"I'm fine," She assures him, though she's on the verge of bursting into tears. She's terrified—of what did this to Dean and of losing Dean—but she needs to have a handle on this situation. Dean needs her to be calm. She needs to save them, "Where's Sam?"

Dean lifts a shaky finger and points to the small snow globe sitting on a table across from them. It's the same one she found earlier, though now the tree is lit up, the lights sparkling as it turns round and round.

"Charlie . . ." He starts to push himself up, but she forces him back down.

"Dean, no, you need to stay put," The fact that she is easily able to subdue him speaks volumes about how hurt he actually is and that scares her. Dean is one of the strongest people she knows. To see him hurt like this . . . she can't stand it. Facing the snow globe, she swallows nervously, "I'll get Sam." She plasters a shaky smile on her lips as she meets Dean's gaze once more, "Just hold on for me, okay?"

With that, she gets up and moves to the table. Taking a deep breath in, she slowly reaches her hand out to the snow globe and then touches it. The glass burns her skin and she gasps as she feels herself falling.

And then there's darkness.

* * *

When she opens her eyes, she finds herself staring upwards at that same beautiful tree she saw in the snow globe. As the faint tune of Christmas carols reaches her ears, she takes a step on the snowy ground.

"Holy shit," She breathes because she must be inside the snow globe. That meant the snow globe had to be a cursed object or something. And she had accidentally activated it. She would chide herself later though because right now, she had to find Sam, "Sam!"

There is snow for what seemed like an eternity. There are no houses in the distance, no other people. It was just the she and the tree. But Sam is here somewhere and she has to find him and bring him home.

"Sam!"

She will search forever if she had to. She had gotten them into this mess and she would get them out of it.

"Sam, can you hear me?"

And there—lying in the bank of snow a few feet away from the tree is Sam.

"Sam!" She does her best to sprint to him, the snow making it nearly impossible to move. She places her hands on his cheeks—his skin is like ice and she can't tell if he's breathing. She rests her ear against his chest, straining to hear his heart beat, but with the fierce wind, it's impossible to tell, "No, Sam, don't do this to me." He has a matching wound on his chest, just like his brother. Whoever attacked Dean did the same to Sam and suddenly, the redhead knows that she is horribly outmatched. She doesn't know how to save him. She isn't even sure if she could.

But she has to try.

Sam believes in her. Sam cares for her. Sam wouldn't give up on her, he'd figure someway to help her so she has to try.

"Please!" Tears are starting to roll down her cheeks, but she begins CPR, counting compressions and willing Sam's beating heart back into existence. He can't die, not now, not like this, not because of her. He has to live. There's so much more she wants to know about him. She wants to talk to him about _Game of Thrones_ , about how he liked Stanford all those years ago. She can't let him go—not now.

And against all odds, when the wind dies down, Sam is breathing once more.

"Sam?" She whispers as the youngest Winchester begins to stir in the snow. His eyes flash open, though they are hazy and unfocused. He's lost a lot of blood so he isn't out of the woods yet. He needs medical attention and fast.

"Charlie?" He mutters and she beams at him.

"Hang on, I'll get us out of here."

"I'm afraid not." A voice speaks up and instantly, Charlie spins around, positioning herself between Sam and the potential enemy. She'd die before she let someone else hurt him—she knows that now, understands just how much she was willing to sacrifice for the Winchesters.

The woman who stands before her has her chestnut hair piled high upon her head. She wears a tacky Christmas sweater of bright green with Santa's smiling face beaming on it. Her jeans are tastefully tucked into her snow boots and as she regards Charlie, the redhead can tell this woman isn't human. She isn't shivering nor does she seem worried about the snowy world around them.

"Who are you?" Charlie growls, trying to act braver than she felt.

"Isn't this what you wished for?" The woman questions softly, "To be of use to them?"

"You . . ." The pieces suddenly came together and Charlie now realizes whom she was facing, "You granted my wish?"

The spirit grins as she nods, "Yes. I helped you. Now you see how important you are to them."

"But you almost killed them!" Charlie snaps, worry making her tone harsh, "Sam and Dean still might die because of you! You have to let me go!"

The spirit frowns somewhat, "You are not pleased? I granted your Christmas wish."

"They are going to die!" Charlie cries, "Please, let us go—"

"Why would you leave?" The spirit presses, taking a step towards Charlie, "Here it is eternally Christmas. Here you can live out all of your wishes. You can stay with me—" She stretched a hand towards her, her peach lips curling upwards in a somewhat sinister grin.

"No." Charlie jerks back. "No, I can't."

The spirit grimaces, "Mortals are so foolish. I offer you a sanctuary, I grant your wish and you are ungrateful."

"Please," Charlie's voice breaks and the spirit regards her curiously, "My friends are hurt. They need me. Let me help them."

"If I let you go, you'll never come back." The spirit pouts, folding her arms across her chest.

"Is this really how you want to make friends? By holding them hostage?" Charlie retorts. Then, softening her voice, she continues, "Please, let me help them. They're my family. I can't . . . I can't do this without them."

The spirit says nothing for the longest time, but then sighs, "Go. Save them."

Then, without another word, she disappears in the snow.

Charlie has no time to wonder where the spirit came from and who she had been. She has more pressing matters to attend to. Turning to Sam, she tugs on his arm, trying to sling it over her shoulder. She has to get him out of this place fast or the cold temperature and blood loss will do him in. Groaning, she finally manages to get Sam somewhat leaning on her. He's tall and heavy, so he's nearly crushing her really, but she forces herself to keep walking away from the tree towards the vast emptiness of the snow filled world.

"Hang on, Sam," She tells him, though he was unconscious once more, "I'll save you."

If she doesn't, she'll never forgive herself.

Right when she is about to lose hope, the snow gives way under her. Clinging to Sam, she feels them both falling once more.

* * *

The doctor tells her it's a miracle that the two boys are alive. He tosses words around like "blood loss" and "lacerations" and in Sam's case, "hypothermia". Dean is out of the woods, but Sam is still touch and go.

"You really should be examined too." The doctor tells her, but she shrugs off his concern. Other than a massive headache that she got when she and Sam fell onto the hard bunker floor, she's fine.

She really hates hospitals. She lost her whole life overnight in one. She's never been the same since. If she loses Sam and Dean now, that's it for her. She'll never open her heart to anyone else. She won't ever trust again.

Because in this world, caring for other people just leads to heartbreak.

* * *

It's Christmas Eve and Sam's finally awake and about to be discharged. She's avoided being with the two brothers while they were awake—the guilt was too much and it felt like it was going to consume her soon—and now that her car has finally decided to spring back to life, she's got to leave. It was wrong of her to come here. She almost got the two of them killed.

This is why she didn't get close to people.

As she packs up the rest of her stuff, she hears a voice in the doorway, "You were just going to leave without saying anything?"

She bites her lower lip as she regards Sam. All she can see when she looks at him is the blood from his wound—a wound that he got because of a foolish wish she made—and she glances away, muttering, "You weren't supposed to be discharged yet."

"Dean and I both signed out AMA." He states.

"Oh."

Awkward silence.

"So, how long are you going to avoid us?" He questions and she opens her mouth to protest when he interjects, "C'mon Charlie, we know you pretty well by now. Dean and I can tell how guilty you feel. It wasn't your fault—"

"It was!" She insists sharply, "I made that stupid wish—"

"You couldn't have known that snow globe was cursed—"

"And because I did you and Dean almost died!" Her voice cracks, "I almost lost you two and I . . . I couldn't live with myself if something like that happened again."

"So, what?" Sam challenges, "You're just never going to see us again?"

"If that's what it takes to keep you two safe!" She snaps.

Sam chuckles darkly, "Charlie, Dean and I will always be in danger. We'll always be hunting something. What happened isn't your fault, okay?"

"But I—"

Sam crosses the gap between them and places a warm hand on her shoulder, "Stay, Charlie. Please."

And when he wraps his arms around her, Charlie feels like she's home.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I love Charlie. Seriously, I miss her so much. Anyways, I'm looking forward to the requests you guys come up with! Thanks for reading!_


	2. Family

_**Author's Note:**_ _Happy holidays everyone! First off, let me thank you all for all the encouraging words! I'm so happy to hear that this collection of stories means a lot to each of you. I have a blast writing your requests so thank you all for submitting year after year. Okay, let's get started, shall we? Requests are now_ _ **CLOSED**_ _. Our first prompt comes from oooPennywiseooo, who asked for, "Trolls break into the bunker during x-mas. Charlie and Kevin are there, as well." This is an interesting prompt! I literally knew nothing about trolls before I started writing this. Thank you for the prompt! Please enjoy! This is set in early season eight, pre-Trials._

* * *

" _I was following the pack, all swallowed in their coats_

 _With scarves of red tied 'round their throats_

 _To keep their little heads from falling in the snow."_

— _Fleet Foxes, "White Winter Hymnal"_

* * *

 _—Now_

In all the various ways Charlie Bradbury pictured her first Christmas with the Winchesters going wrong, this had never been one of them.

"Okay, okay," She presses the quickly turning crimson white towel down on the bleeding cut on Sam's side, which elicits a hiss of pain from the fallen youngest Winchester. "Sorry," She mutters, trying not to completely lose it as the towel becomes soaked in blood, trying not to sob her eyes out as fear threatens to overtake her.

It's hard not to meltdown, to give herself over completely to panic and grief. Because Sam is slowly bleeding out before her and there's nothing she can do to save him.

How did this Christmas Eve get so fucked up?

* * *

 _—Then_

She'd driven down to spend Christmas with the Winchesters three days ago. She'd been surprised by their invitation, but she gratefully accepted. This would be her first Christmas that she would spend with other, actual real life people since her parents' accident. In the years after the accident, she'd spent Christmas locked in the magical world of an MMO, where she could bury her grief and guilt in quests for mythical treasure or boss fights.

When she arrived at the bunker, Kevin, the young prophet Sam had mentioned briefly in his emails, greeted her. The teenager stood in the doorway, leaning slightly to the side, almost as if he was trying to size her up.

"Uh, hey." She hefted her bag on her shoulder and shot him a shaky smile. She hadn't really interacted with other people in years. Then, the Winchesters had come barreling into her carefully constructed life and here she was—awkwardly trying to figure out the right thing to say.

"Hey." Kevin didn't open the door, "Charlie, right?"

"Right." She glanced down at her shoes, uncomfortable.

"Cool."

Silence.

"You must be Kevin," She stated softly and the teen nodded his head. Then, summoning up her courage, she opened her bag and pulled out her latest television obsession and held it up to him, "You ever see _Sons of Anarchy_?" She'd brought it for Dean really—a compromise for him when she and Sam wanted to watch _Game of Thrones_ —but she really wanted to impress this teen.

"Nope." He wasn't interested—she could tell by the way he dropped his gaze.

"I have candy." She pointed to her bag, then cringed at how pathetic she sounded. Here she was, an invited guest, and she was begging for entry inside.

"Chocolate?" He was suddenly focused on her bag and Charlie smirked.

"Tons of it."

With that, Kevin threw open the door, "Come inside."

* * *

"Your Highness." Sam stood in the doorframe of the guest bedroom, bowing slightly, a silly grin on his lips.

"Hey!" She hopped off the bed and immediately launched herself at the youngest Winchester, wrapping her arms around his larger frame. Glancing down the hallway, she turned her curious gaze back to his face, "Where's Dean?"

"Grocery store," Sam replied quickly as Charlie released him.

"Ah," She murmured, "Guess you weren't kidding when you said he went on a cooking kick." She ran a hand through her red hair, fingers tugging at a stubborn knot.

Sam took a seat on the edge of her bed, his expression growing contemplative, "Something on your mind?"

She froze. Biting her lower lip, she turned away, "It's stupid—"

"Charlie." There wasn't a hint of a reprimand in his tone, just acceptance. She knew whatever she chose to reveal to him, he'd understand. How'd she get so lucky to end up knowing people like the Winchesters? She'd resigned herself to a life of loneliness and then they just appeared.

It was almost like a Christmas miracle really.

And now here she was, ready to spend her first Christmas in who knows how many years with actual people.

"Charlie? You okay?" Sam's brow furrowed and immediately, Charlie wiped away the few tears that had begun to roll down her cheeks.

"I'm just . . ." Overwhelmed. Overjoyed. "Happy."

For once, she wasn't going to be alone on Christmas.

* * *

 _—Now_

"Charlie!" Kevin ran into her view, another towel in his shaking hands. He skidded to a stop before her, quickly handing the towel to her as his eyes took in Sam's condition.

"Any word on Dean?" She swapped the bloody towel out for the new one, wincing when Sam moaned from the pain of the pressure she was applying. She had to be strong for him. And if he could still feel pain, then that meant he was still alive.

Because they had to all survive until Christmas morning.

"He's outside. It's chasing him." Kevin muttered, glancing at the shattered window outside, the cold wind howling as the moonlight reflected off the shattered glass.

"Shit." She couldn't just stay here. She had to get Sam and Kevin somewhere safe and then go help Dean.

"Kevin, help me move him." She began to jostle Sam, whispering apologies under her breath as Sam hissed in pain.

"What?" Kevin's eyes widened in alarm. "Move him? Are you kidding?"

"No." She got Sam to sit up and quickly, Kevin moved around to her other side and between the two of them, they got Sam standing as best they could. "Okay, here's the plan—you take care of Sam and I'll go help Dean."

She knew the basement might be the safest room in the whole bunker. It locked from the inside and the two brothers had deposited a stash of weapons there just in case. Sam and Kevin would survive the night there and once the sun rose . . .

Well, they'd be safe.

Gently, she laid Sam on the ground before rummaging through the supplies in the basement. Giving a few bandages to Kevin, she searched the room for some sort of antiseptic.

"Charlie, what if—?" She knew what question he was trying to ask. She didn't want to know the answer herself.

Handing him the antiseptic, she forced a shaky smile on her lips, "It will be okay. Look after him. I'll be back."

She forced herself not to look back after the door slammed shut behind her. She had to help Dean.

They would all make it to Christmas together.

* * *

 _—Then_

Dean parked the Impala and Charlie did her best not to hop out of the car the moment the engine stopped. She couldn't believe this was actually happening. Not only was she spending Christmas with other people, but she was also going to have a real Christmas tree. It was almost like the stuff out of those Christmas Hallmark movies that she would never admit to watching.

"Excited?" Kevin questioned as they all got out of the car.

Charlie just nodded. Words could not express how thrilled she was right now, how she could feel the trauma of the past slowly slipping away.

This Christmas . . . this would be the one where she would finally feel like a happy person again.

"Got the axe?" Dean asked and Sam nodded.

"Okay, Charlie," Sam gestured to the forest of trees. Then with a wink, "Pick one."

She hadn't needed to be told twice.

* * *

 _—Now_

But, of course, what they hadn't known—what they couldn't have known—was that the forest was home to a troll who hadn't appreciated someone taking "his" tree.

The night of Christmas Eve, rocks had been hurled at the bunker and before Charlie could process what was even happening, the troll had broken in and managed to cut Sam's stomach with its long claws. She hadn't even seen it—just the back of it as it chased after Dean—and she knew next to nothing about how to handle trolls. She knew a bit of folklore—they hated church bells, they were dim witted but strong and they would turn to stone if caught in sunlight.

Now, as she forced herself to go outside, armed with a small pistol, she forced herself to breathe. She had to find Dean and help him. The sooner they dealt with the troll, the sooner they could Sam the help he needed.

Twigs crunched under shoes and the sound echoed in the darkness.

"Shit." She needed to be careful or she would—

Her arm burned as the troll's claws sunk into her arm. Jerking away, she fired her gun, hoping she at least clipped it before it dissolved back into darkness.

"Charlie!" Dean was there, helping her up, checking her wound, "What are you doing? I told you to stay inside!"

"I have to help you!" She protested, "The two of us can figure this out—"

"You're hurt—"

"Not as bad as Sam is and besides, we don't have time to—"

"Enough!" The troll emerged from the shadows. It was a bit shorter than she was, but it's back was hunched. Its claws extended outwards and she could see blood staining the tips. It's emerald eyes sparkled in the moonlight, but the twisted smile it gave terrified her. It pointed a claw at her, "You have taken what is mine!"

"I'm sorry!" She exclaimed, "You can have the tree back!"

"You tainted it!" The troll roared, "You made it yours!" It grimaced, "I will kill all of you."

Dean aimed his shotgun at its chest, "Try it."

But Charlie knew that gunshots weren't having an effect on it. They would either need to outwit it until sunrise or somehow get rid of it . . .

"Wait." She breathed, pulling out her phone.

"What are you doing?" Dean hissed as she quickly typed.

"Hold on!"

The roar of thunder echoed.

"What?" The troll shifted nervously, glancing at the sky.

There was a flash of lighting.

"Thor is coming." Charlie lied.

The troll's eyes widened.

"Will you stay and fight him?" The redhead pressed as she forced the sound effect of thunder to play once more.

"Well met, mortals."

That was the last thing the troll said before it disappeared back into the forest.

And then the sun began to rise.

"Merry Christmas." Charlie whispered.

But it wasn't really.

* * *

Charlie packed up the last of her clothes and took one more look at herself in the mirror. Her arm stung, but the cuts hadn't been deep enough for stiches. The bandage the doctor at the emergency room had placed would be enough until she got home and she could handle it herself.

This was her fault. She'd been the one so insistent on having a tree. She'd caused this whole debacle to happen. Sam was in the hospital because of her. He'd almost died because of her stupid—

"You were just going to leave?"

She spun around to see Sam in the doorway, battered, bruised, but alive. His whole stomach was covered in bandages and it had to hurt to stand up like that, but there he was.

"Shouldn't you be in the hospital?" She retorted, though there wasn't any heat in her tone.

"Charlie."

He took a step towards her and she backed up.

"I have to go."

She didn't belong here. She was meant to be alone, on Christmas especially. People close to her got hurt because of her. She was a fool to even think otherwise—

"It's not your fault." His arms wrapped around her and she froze, stunned by the sudden hug. She didn't dare move for fear of hurting him, but she didn't deserve this hug. She didn't deserve the Winchesters. She was supposed to be—

"Shh, it's okay, Charlie. You're not alone anymore."

As he held her while she sobbed, part of her knew he was right.

* * *

Two days later, with the bunker repaired and Sam recovering, they celebrate Christmas. Exchanging gifts, laughing, drinking hot chocolate—it's the Christmas she always envisioned for herself.

But, as she looks at Sam, Dean and Kevin, she knows that it's their presence that really matters. Without them, she'd just be a shell of herself.

Sam catches her gaze, an unasked question in his eyes.

She just grins, "Merry Christmas."

He smirks, "Merry Christmas, Charlie."

And she is home.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I will be updating daily so I hope you all will enjoy the upcoming stories. Please review if you have a moment! Thanks!_


	3. Un(Real)

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **jaredsalpaca**_ _who requested, "Sam, Dean, and John are up in Minnesota for Christmas. They're staying in a little log cabin and going over game plan when something gets in and takes Sam right in front of John and Dean's eyes. John and Dean have to trek out in a blizzard to rescue Sam, who has a broken arm and slight hypothermia. Maybe he was taken by Santa's elves turned evil? See a kid who doesn't feel the spirit of Christmas and decide to take matters into their own hands. Pre-series, Sam 18, Dean 22." Thank you so much for the awesome prompt! I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

" _I know you're out there_

 _I hear your reindeer_

 _I see the snow where_

 _Your boots have been."_

— _Train, "Shake Up Christmas"_

* * *

Sam is ten when he finds out that Santa Claus isn't real.

It's all told to him, matter-of-factly, by his father.

"If Santa were real," John begins quietly, a hand resting on Sam's small shoulder, "We'd hunt him."

And that's the end of that conversation really. The presents still magically appear on Christmas morning and Dean buys him the fluffiest stack of pancakes at the local diner, but it doesn't heal the grief in Sam's heart.

Because deep down, he had believed in Santa, in the magic that the man in the red suit represented. He tried to be the best kid he could, not for his own sake, but for the hope that Santa would see and bring Dean something special too.

But now . . . now it's all over.

There is no Santa, bringing joy and happiness to children the world over.

And that sucks.

* * *

The last Christmas he spends before he goes to Stanford is in a small town in Minnesota. They're tracking down a ghost that keeps murdering anyone that dares to move into its old home. It's a simple hunt really—get in, salt and burn the snow globe that was tethering the spirit to this world and then boom, the ghost is gone. It's two days until Christmas and somehow Dean has managed to convince their father to rent a little log cabin until the holiday is over. It's the kind of cabin that you would see in those cheesy Christmas movies—a supposedly magical place where Christmas miracles could occur.

Sam scoffs. As if Christmas miracles actually existed.

He hasn't told Dean or his father yet, but if Sam plays his cards right, this will be his last Christmas as a hunter. He's going to get out of this life and be normal. He's going to build a life free from things that go bump in the night. He'll become a lawyer—someone that could bail his father or brother out if they needed it, but really, he wanted to become one because lawyers earn a lot of money.

And he needed a lot of money if he was going to one day be able to support not only a wife and kids, but John and Dean as well. That's what Sam really wants after all—to live a long life with his family. One day, one of these hunts would go sideways and end up with one of them dead. It's the sad reality of their profession.

But Sam will be damned if his family ends up as a statistic.

He's getting out and one way or another, John and Dean will too.

* * *

 _You better watch out, you better not cry . . ._

"What's with you?" Dean questions, coming to sit across from his little brother at the small kitchen table.

"Nothing." Sam responds, trying to tune out the cheery Christmas carol. He's so sick of this season. It's just commercial. It's not real. All anyone cares about is the presents anyways—

"Hey, Mr. Grinch." Dean tosses a crumpled piece of paper at Sam's face.

"I said it's nothing!" Sam snaps.

"Okay, fine," Dean relents, leaning back in the chair, "You ready for the hunt?"

"Yeah."

Dean studies his brother's profile for a few moments, careful eyes cataloguing every detail and Sam knows he's trying to figure out what's going on with his behavior.

"I'm fine, Dean." Sam tells him once more, softer this time.

"Boys, it's really coming down out there." John closes the front door behind him, a gust of icy wind filling the cabin for a moment. His father has a bag of groceries in his grip and he quickly places them on the table.

"You get the pie?" Dean's eyes are wide, excited and Sam smirks.

"Yes." John chuckles at his older son's expression.

This is it, Sam think, seeing his brother and father actually laughing with each other.

This is the last Christmas they'll all be together for awhile.

It's funny because he almost feels sad—

Glass shatters. The lights go out.

Before Sam can process what's happening, he feels a sharp pain in his temple and then—

Darkness.

* * *

He is tied up to a chair with golden tinsel and actual elves are holding him hostage.

"Holy shit." Sam breathes as he takes in the two elves before him.

"Hey!" One chirps, his red hat tipping as the small bell attached to the edge of it jingles, "Language!"

"Yeah, Sam Winchester," The other one, dressed in green, barks, "You're in big trouble!"

"Wait . . ." Sam pauses and takes in his surroundings. He's in a cave of some sorts. He can hear the blizzard raging outside, but the fire crackling in the middle of the cave keeps the chamber warm. He wants to either laugh or scream—this whole thing is just ridiculous! "Are you two . . . elves?"

"Duh!" The red one snaps.

The green one replies, "Did we really bring this kid an encyclopedia when he was six, Jangle? Kid seems pretty stupid."

"Jingle, I know we did!" The elf in red shouts, "I was the one who had to load it into the big guy's sleigh!"

"Jingle, Jangle," Sam echoes and the two elves face him, "This must be some weird dream."

It has to be. None of this is real.

Santa Claus isn't—

"Stop right there!" Jangle orders, pointing a finger in Sam's direction, "Enough with the lack of Christmas spirit! I have had enough!"

"Me too!" Jingle chirps, nodding his head, "Sam Winchester, you used to be filled with the Christmas spirit. Now, you just hate it!"

"And that makes elves like us go crazy!" Jangle growls, taking a step menacingly towards the youngest Winchester.

"Yeah," Jingle's gaze narrows and a malicious smile tugs on his lips, "Let's talk, okay, Sam?"

He only realizes he's in big trouble when they begin to chuckle sinisterly.

* * *

Sam's been missing only two hours but Dean's already losing his mind.

They don't know what exactly broke into the cabin and managed to snatch Sam for the split second the lights went out, but so far they've been able to eliminate demons and ghosts. Still, with the blizzard raging outside, they didn't have time to spare. Sam could be out in it or worse—

"Dean." John's voice is sharp, a reminder to stay focused.

"I know." Dean huffs, frustrated, but knowing his father is right.

The sooner they figure out what had Sam, the sooner they could find him.

And hanging on the wall, the clock just continues to tick.

* * *

Sam is pretty sure his arm is broken.

He's also pretty sure he's being tormented by two very evil Christmas elves. Though they claim to want to help him regain his love of the holiday, the more they beat him, the more sadistic they become.

Sam needs to get out of here.

Fast.

"Look," Sam mutters through bloody lips, "I said I was sorry. I'll have the Christmas spirit—"

"Too little, too late," Jingle growls, smirking, "We know you don't believe Sam. And you know what, that pisses me off!"

"Language." Sam tries to joke, but its clear the elves have gone off the deep end. They're no longer Christmas elves. They're something else entirely.

"You're ours, Sam," Jangle hisses, "We'll show you what happens to grinches."

"That's enough!" A loud, booming voice echoes and Sam can't believe his eyes as the figure enters the cave.

Red suit, big belly, white beard, glasses—there's no way.

"Santa Claus?" Sam mutters, astounded.

No fucking way.

"Boss!" Jingle and Jangle chirp, bowing their heads and nervously glancing at each other.

"We were, uh, just trying to—"

But Santa Claus is clearly not amused judging by the frown on his lips. He steps towards the two elves, shaking his head. Then, with a wink at Sam, he quickly waves his hand and both Jingle and Jangle are gone. Nodding to himself, Santa then faces the youngest Winchester.

"Oh, Sam," Santa murmurs, shaking his head, "I am so sorry for this." With another wave of his hand, the tinsel disappears and Sam feels like he can finally breathe again. His arm burns though but the pain is sort of dulled as he stares up at Santa.

It's Santa Claus.

"You're real." Sam states, sort of dumbfounded.

Santa laughs, a deep belly laugh that bounces off the cave's walls, "I am indeed!"

Still, Sam is having a hard time reconciling this with what he's grown up to know. John said Santa wasn't real and if he was that they would—

"We're supposed to hunt you." Sam whispers, horrified by that thought.

"I am older than you hunters, Sam," Santa informs him with a grin, "I know a few more tricks." The jolly man quickly closes the gap between them and places a gloved hand on Sam's shoulder. Immediately, the pain in his arm is gone.

"How did you—?"

"I'm sorry for Jingle and Jangle," Santa remarks quietly, "You see, the two of them haven't really had their full dose of Christmas spirit and when they come in contact with someone who has a bad view of Christmas . . ." Santa sighs, "Well, needless to say, problems can occur. Rest assured I will handle it."

Sam has so many questions. After all these years, he finally is meeting Santa Claus. Dean and his father will flip—

"I have to get back!" The youngest Winchester suddenly explains, "My brother and father must be looking for me."

"Well, lucky for you, I happen to have a fast ride." Santa points outside and Sam can hear the sound of reindeer.

"No way."

"Want a ride?"

Santa doesn't need to be asked twice.

* * *

The blizzard makes seeing even five feet in front of them nearly impossible. The world is a white wonderland, but with a nasty frostbite. Dean is bundled up in who knows how many jackets and he still feels like he's freezing.

But Sam is out here somewhere.

No matter what happens, Dean will find him.

"Keep moving!" John shouts over the roar of the wind and Dean forces his frozen body to do so.

Sam needs them.

* * *

"Your father and your brother are just ahead." Santa informs him as the two hop out of his sleigh.

Sam can't believe this night even happened. He was kidnapped by two evil elves and rescued by Santa Claus himself. It all seems so impossible.

"Santa, I—" Sam doesn't even know what he wants to say. He hated Christmas because he felt like it was all a lie, yet seeing Santa rekindled something within him. That spark of being an innocent child—of believing his father was a traveling salesman, of hoping for a better future—he can feel it burning within his chest once more.

"Sam," Santa smiles and it warms Sam to his core, "I'm afraid you won't remember tonight. Neither will your father or your brother. As far as anyone is concerned, you got caught in the blizzard and tripped down a ledge, breaking your arm."

"But why?" Sam protests, "Why shouldn't I remember? I mean, you're real! You made me remember why Christmas is so great—"

Santa sighs softly, a well-worn grin on his lips, "Sam, it's not me that's important to you. You loved Christmas because your family was around you. You believed Christmas was the one day where the three of you could just be a normal family."

It's true. Christmas was the one day where John was actually there. Christmas meant no hunts, just pie and presents. Being with his family, without any imminent danger, those were the moments he treasured.

"Yeah," Sam nods, "You're right."

Santa moves back towards his sleigh, but hesitates a moment before getting into it. He faces the youngest Winchester once more, "Sam. Whatever fate has in store for you, remember that you are the glue that holds your family together. Whatever may happen, you are the key."

"What does that mean?" Sam presses. Santa knows more than he's telling, but what did his cryptic words actually mean?

Santa gets into the sleigh and picks up the reins, "Oh. And Merry Christmas!"

And then he's gone, just a speck in the night sky.

* * *

When Sam awakens, his arm is in a cast and he's bundled in about a thousand blankets. John is asleep in the chair by his bedside, snoring softly.

"You awake?" Dean enters the room, a cup of coffee in his hands, "How do you feel?"

"M'head." Sam mutters, trying to get rid of the distant ache in his temple. He can't help but feel like he's forgetting something important. How did he get here?

"Relax," Dean soothes, coming to stand by his bedside, his older brother's free hand grabbing Sam's and tracing soothing circles onto it, "You got caught in the storm and fell. Doc said you broke your arm and had a concussion. It might take you awhile to remember some things."

That seems right, he supposes, but he still feels like something is off.

"Just sleep." Dean orders.

Sam finds himself dozing off already, no doubt in part thanks to the medicine coursing through his veins. Still, he wanted to tell Dean something, something important, "I saw Santa."

Dean just chuckles, "Sure, Sammy, and I saw the Easter Bunny. Dude, just sleep."

Sam falls asleep to his brother humming an off-key Christmas carol.

It may not be the best way to spend Christmas, but as long as his family is by his side, that's all that matters.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _And that's a wrap! I hope you guys enjoyed it! I had a blast writing this one—the prompt really challenged me to get out of my usual writing routine. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	4. Circle

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm really loving all the stories so far and I hope you all are too! Today's prompt comes for a_ _ **Guest**_ _user who requested, "Vocal cords, Mary, Christmas caroling and homemade pudding". Wow, these words gave me so many ideas when I first read them, but ultimately one idea kept coming up and wouldn't leave. Thank you for such an amazing prompt! Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _Caroling, caroling, now we go_

 _Christmas bells are ringing_

 _Caroling, caroling thru the snow_

 _Christmas bells are ringing."_

— _Nat King Cole, "Caroling, Caroling"_

* * *

As a mother, Mary Winchester finds herself getting to experience a whole new world, one so different from the one she left behind. Instead of learning about demons or hunting down ghosts, she chases Dean down the halls of the house and tries to soothe the baby constantly moving in her rapidly growing belly. It's almost Christmas now and she can't help but smile because this time next year, she will have two children and one adoring husband by her side.

She's blessed, really.

"Mama!" Dean skids to a halt suddenly and places his tiny hands on Mary's swollen belly. The wonderment that crosses over the little boy's face when he feels his sibling kick never ceases to stun Mary.

"You feel the baby?" Mary questions, a grin spreading on her lips.

Dean nods enthusiastically, "Yeah!"

"Next year at Christmas, we'll all be together." Mary informs her eldest, grabbing his warm hand within her own.

"Together!" Dean echoes and Mary chuckles.

"C'mon," She ushers him back towards the kitchen, "I could use your help making pudding."

Because that's the only thing she truly knows how to make—homemade Christmas pudding. Her first Christmas with John she'd attempted to make it and failed spectacularly. But with each Christmas that passes, she's getting better at this whole domestic thing.

Who knows? Next year, with this new baby by her side, she might even learn how to make pie.

Dean would love that.

"I want chocolate pudding!" Dean shouts and Mary just nods.

This is where she belongs, after all.

* * *

Bobby sighs as he faces the six year old pouting as he stares out the window. Both John and Dean are long gone—the Impala pulled out of the driveway almost an hour ago—but Sam still hasn't moved.

"Sam?"

The little boy doesn't budge—his eyes are locked outside, on the dirt path that took his family away from him.

"Damn." The gruff hunter curses under his breath because this isn't how he wants the youngest Winchester spending Christmas. Sure, John and Dean would be back, hopefully, before Christmas, but Sam should be excited, demanding presents and posing questions about Santa.

"Uncle Bobby?" Sam finally turns around, his eyes wide and sparkling with unshed tears.

Bobby opens his arms wide and the little boy practically hurls himself at the older hunter, nearly throwing the grown man off balance. Still, as Bobby hoists a crying Sam up, he can't help but wonder what Karen would do in a situation like this.

Christmas had always been her favorite time of her. She decorated the house with enough lights that Bobby had once joked that even NASA could see it. She'd just laughed and gone back to singing Christmas carols as she began her holiday baking. Karen always knew how to liven up the house and how to warm his heart.

But Karen was another lifetime ago.

"You better watch out, you better not cry," His voice is rough and his pitch is nowhere near perfect, but he forces himself to continue as the crying child stills within his arms, "You better not pout, I'm telling you why."

"Santa Claus is coming to town!" Sam suddenly shouts, a beaming grin alighting on his lips.

He places Sam down as the little boy continues to sing and Bobby chuckles. He'd forgotten how easily children were distracted. Still, it wouldn't hurt to let keep Sam busy. He hadn't really celebrated Christmas in years, but there was a box of old decorations just sitting in the attic.

Maybe . . . maybe it was finally time to bring them back out again.

"You better watch out, Uncle Bobby!" Sam jabs a tiny finger in his direction and Bobby just laughs.

"Have I been naughty?" He questions the younger boy.

Sam thinks on it for a moment before quickly shaking his head, "No! But you never know."

"C'mon, kiddo. Let's decorate so we can surprise your brother and father when they get back."

The way Sam's eyes light up proves that he's made the right choice.

 _See? It's not too late for you yet._

He just smiles as Karen's voice fades away and leads Sam towards the decorations.

* * *

"Jess, you really don't have to—"

His girlfriend of six months glares at him and Sam's quickly lets his voice trail off. She dips the wet cloth back into the basin of cool water and then carefully wrings out the excess water before placing the cloth against Sam's burning forehead.

"What? And leave you here by yourself?" She grimaces, "I don't what it is about you, but you suck at taking care of yourself."

If Sam had the energy, he would roll his eyes and sigh dramatically. The truth is that he feels way too much like crap to do anything, but meet Jess' concerned gaze. He does suck at taking care of himself. He doesn't like to be a bother to others. The truth is that he hadn't even known he was getting sick until he woke up one day with a fever. Usually Dean would—

But Dean isn't here.

No, Dean made his choice.

"Sam. You okay?" Jess places a cool hand on his cheek and he leans into it.

"M'fine." He mumbles.

They were supposed to go Christmas caroling tonight with Brady. Jess always looked forward to it—this was her favorite time of year—but as soon as he admitted he was sick, she quickly cancelled to take care of him.

"Liar." Jess retorts, a smirk on her peach lips.

This is the girl he's going to marry. Maybe not now, but one day down the road. This is the girl who took him when he was broken and loved him anyway. This is the girl who accepted him, despite knowing that there were secrets he would never be able to share with her.

"Jess?"

"Yeah?"

He presses a kiss to her hand and smiles, "I love you."

"I love you too," She grins, "Now get some rest."

He falls asleep to her humming Christmas carols.

* * *

Being strangled sucks.

For some reason that Sam can't really figure out, spirits just love to attack his throat. They love watching him struggle with not being able to breathe. When his throat is crushed and his vocal cords are smashed, Sam watches as the world goes from bright to grey as he fades away.

Luckily, he hasn't crossed over to the other side yet, but there have been times when he lost consciousness only to wake up, gasping, meeting his brother's panicked gaze.

"Here. Drink up." Dean hands him a glass of water and Sam groans.

Everything burns the first few days after being strangled. His voice doesn't work—he's lucky if his vocal cords even manage to give him a few sounds here and there—and his throat is usually swollen.

"Don't give me that look," His older brother chides, "You need to stay hydrated. Helps keep the swelling down."

Sam eyes the glass of water like it's demon that ruined their whole family. Still, right now, the glass of water seems scarier than the demon. In fact, he'd take have four visions back to back than drinking this water.

"Sammy. C'mon." Dean sighs.

Sam wants to cry. It'll burn. And he knows he's being childish, but he so tired of doing this.

He misses being normal.

He misses Jess.

He misses their father.

"Sammy," Dean places a hand on Sam's arm and grins, "Drink a few sips. Then, I'll buy you whatever nerdy thing you want for Christmas."

It's a compromise, one that Sam appreciates.

Steeling himself, he forces himself to drink the water.

* * *

Lucifer loves Christmas.

In the Cage, he sings loudly and off-key as he tortures Sam with burning Christmas lights.

"What do you want for Christmas, Sammy?" Lucifer chirps as he swings the lights once more, the multicolored glass burning onto Sam's skin, "A pony? A sweatshirt? Hey, I know! A big brother?"

But Sam knows Dean is out there, with Lisa, celebrating Christmas like a normal family. Living the life that Sam used to dream about. Dean is alive and safe.

That's the only Christmas present Sam ever needed.

* * *

Amelia returns to find him crying, drunk on the floor of their apartment.

She just wraps her arms around him and whispers, "I know."

It's always harder around the holidays to keep breathing when Dean is gone.

* * *

"So, what did you get me?" Charlie questions, a big grin on her lips, as she leans across the table to touch Sam's arm.

"For Christmas?" The youngest Winchester questions.

"Duh!" The redhead sighs.

Sam chuckles, though it quickly dissolves into a cough that shakes his whole body. He reaches for a tissue and does his best not to recoil at the sight of blood staining the white fabric crimson. Seeing her widened gaze, he states, "I'm fine."

She doesn't buy it. Not by a long shot. Still, she plays along with the charade, "Saaaaaaaaaammmmmmmm." She sighs drawing his name out dramatically, "What did you get me?"

"You have to wait."

"Not even a hint?"

"No." He turns a page in the book, the words about the Trials all starting to blur together.

"C'mon," She squeezes his hand within her own, "Just one little hint?"

"No," He repeats, "You'll just figure it out."

Charlie pouts, folding her arms across her chest. Then, rising from the table, she smirks, "Okay, fine. I'll just ask Dean." She scampers away before the youngest Winchester can stop her, but it's fine. Sure, Dean will crack and tell her whatever she wants to know, but Sam had a contingency plan.

He didn't tell Dean what Charlie's present is.

"Sam!" Charlie exclaims a few minutes later and the youngest Winchester just shakes his head.

This right here . . . this is why he had undertaken the Trials.

This is what he's fighting to protect.

* * *

Mary Winchester never thought she'd ever be spending Christmas with her two boys again. And she supposes that in a way she's right. Her boys are now hardened men and her husband is long gone. Somehow, her life has become everything she tried to escape.

"Mom?" Sam is actually nervous around her, pausing in her doorway, "Dean is, uh, going to get some groceries. Is there anything you want?"

When she'd been pregnant with him, she'd had so many hopes and dreams.

Now they were nothing more than ash.

"Mom?" Sam tries again and Mary rises from her bed.

"I'll make him a list." She moves towards where she thinks the library is—she's still getting used to this giant bunker—and then grabs a pen and piece of paper.

"What are you going to make?"

She just grins, a faint memory tugging at her heartstrings, "Chocolate pudding."

* * *

So, even after being dead for so many years, she still knows how to make pudding. What's more, her boys still like her pudding. It's odd, spending Christmas here, when she still feels like she's so full of grief.

Her life—her dreams—they've all gone.

But as she places a blanket across a snoring Dean, she can't help but smile.

"Mom?"

She turns to face Sam, her youngest nervously holding a present in his hands.

"Sam?"

"It's for you." He quickly shoves it in her direction before retreating.

Slowly, she unwraps it. A tear rolls down her cheek as she stares at a framed picture of her holding a baby Sam with John and Dean smiling at the newest addition to the family. It's a candid picture—she can't even remember who took it—but it reminds her of what she fought so hard to protect.

Her family.

She marches to Sam's room and knocks on the door.

When he opens it, she embraces him, whispers, "I love you."

This is her first Christmas with Sam, she realizes.

She's got to make it count.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I love full circle stories. With this prompt, I couldn't resist writing one. I hope you all enjoyed! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	5. Misunderstood

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **Colby's girl**_ _who requested, "A misunderstanding between the boys, Sam lost and hurt, thinking Dean doesn't want to spend Christmas with him. Cue frantic Dean." Thank for the intense prompt! I love writing frantic!Dean so this is wonderful. I hope you enjoy it! Let's set this in early season 4._

* * *

" _May all your days be merry_

 _Your seasons full of cheer_

 _But 'til it's January_

 _I'll just go and disappear."_

— _Holly Cole, "Christmas Blues"_

* * *

It's ironic that after all these years of praying, of believing in a higher power and all that that entails, Sam Winchester finds himself despised by Heaven's messengers.

Castiel beams whenever he speaks to Dean, but his cerulean turn icy whenever Sam dares to utter one syllable to him. The angel isn't interested in someone tainted, like him. Heaven doesn't want any piece of him at all.

That stings more than he cares to admit.

Because Sam didn't ask for this fate. He didn't say, "Boy, I'd love to have demonic powers because that would be super cool!" He didn't ask to be part of some huge plan. He didn't pray to be brought back from the dead, only to watch his brother be ripped from him one year later.

No, Sam Winchester prayed for peace, for some sort of understanding.

He prayed for his big brother to be returned to him.

He supposes, in a way, Castiel is the one who answered that last prayer.

But the angel refuses to acknowledge him. In those cerulean eyes, Sam is nothing more than broken human, forever tainted by the demon blood that ran through his veins. His powers, his training with Ruby, and the secrets he's keeping from Dean—he knows he's not exactly the most perfect human out there, but he had at least hoped for something.

Acknowledgement, maybe.

But when Castiel looks at the youngest Winchester, he doesn't really see.

Sam is nothing to him.

* * *

Christmas is a welcome distraction from the craziness that is their life now.

Sure, Sam's hiding secrets and Dean's got something on his mind that he hasn't voiced yet—Sam can see the way his older brother looks at him, grief shining in his gaze and he wonders yet again what Castiel has been saying—but none of that matters.

There are presents to buy and wrap in newspaper. A tree for them to fetch and decorate with whatever they have on hand. They still have their own sort of Christmas traditions to fall back on and thank God for that because Sam doesn't know where he stands anymore. When he lost Dean, he forced himself to keep breathing, to keep moving but part of him had died that day.

Maybe more of himself than he cared to admit.

But Dean is back and that piece of his heart that shattered is slowly gluing itself back together. He gets to joke with his brother, to smile at him once more. It's a miracle, really.

"Sam." Dean holds up a chocolate peppermint pie and Sam just shrugs, knowing Dean will just toss it into the cart even if he objects.

This is should be everything Sam has ever wanted.

Yet . . . all he feels is grief.

Because things aren't the same. They'll never be the same. And it's not just because Heaven exists or that all of the angels he's met seem to hate his guts for no apparent reason—it's because Sam's changed.

When Dean was ripped to shreds in front of him, Sam let the hellhounds take his will to live too.

"Sammy?" Dean places a warm hand on his shoulder, his gaze pensive, "You good?"

The youngest Winchester forces himself to breathe, plaster on a smile and lie, "I'm fine."

He's not, but that's irrelevant.

It's Christmas. Dean's first one since coming back.

Sam will make sure it's the best one they've ever had.

* * *

"He's tainted, Dean."

Sam freezes outside the motel room door, the carton of eggnog slowly slipping from his grip.

"Cas—" Dean's voice is low and deadly, and Sam can picture his face full of rage, even though the door to the room is closed.

"Sam will do something—" The angel insists sharply.

"You don't know Sam—"

"He is working with a demon!" Castiel roars, "Yet you allow this?"

There's a pause and Sam presses his ear against the door, like a child trying to find out what secrets are being kept from him.

Dean sighs, "Look, I don't like it—"

"Sam is a liability."

The words are like bullets to Sam's gut. The venom, the contempt that this angel had for him—it makes him feel like shit. He didn't do anything to deserve this. He always prayed—always believed—and it wasn't his fault that his blood had been tainted. It wasn't his choice—

"I know." Dean replies and Sam staggers back.

"You must do something," Castiel presses, "You are the only one who can."

"I hear you." Dean informs the angel.

That's enough for Sam. The world around him spins, as he grows lightheaded. His pulse quickens, as his mouth grows dry. His stomach churns.

A liability.

Dean saw him as a liability.

Dean agreed with Castiel.

Sam's never been the kind to run away from a situation. No, when he has a problem, he usually tries to confront it, but hearing their conversation, finally knowing what Dean's been too afraid to say to him in person—it breaks something in him.

He has to get away.

* * *

 _Sam. Guessing since you won't pick up your phone and are ignoring all five of my messages that you don't want to spend Christmas together. I don't get this Sammy . . . I don't know why things with us are so difficult. Look, you wanna bail? Fine. I'll let you go. I'm done chasing you, Sammy. Just . . . call me. Let me know you're okay. I got your note, but . . . just want to hear you voice. Call me._

* * *

He doesn't call.

* * *

On Christmas Eve, exactly one week since he left, he finds himself faced with a pair of angry demons in a crowded bar. He doesn't really understand where he stands in the world anymore—is he still against demons even if Heaven hates him?—and he supposes that's how they manage to get a few lucky shots in before he finally gets rid of them.

Sam stumbles outside, the cold air giving him a chance to catch his breath and as the adrenaline starts to leave him, that's when he notices the drops of red on the concrete. He glances down, almost dumbfounded really, and sees the stab wound in his side. Almost as if seeing it reminds his body that yes, he's been stabbed, a wave of pain crashes over him.

He's bleeding a lot. His shirt soon grows damp and clings to his skin. As he sinks against the wall of the building, he sucks in a breath. His thinking might be cloudy—shock, he dimly realizes—but he can still find help. His phone; however, is back in the motel room, which is about ten minutes down the road. Cursing himself, he forces himself to stand, but the ground tilts and he finds himself lying on the pavement.

It's funny that this is how he goes out.

Bleeding out in the parking lot of a bar.

Dean would be so pissed at him for this.

But Sam is too tired to think about that and instead lets his eyes drift shut.

* * *

Dean keeps calling Sam's phone, but it just keeps ringing and ringing. After the fifth time it goes to voicemail, he's had enough. He told Sam he was done chasing after him—fuck that. It was a bluff really, a ploy. Dean's first and only important job is to be Sam's brother and if Sam thought he could just not answer his phone and that would be okay, then he had another thing coming.

"Where are you going?" Castiel questions, once again appearing out of nowhere, but Dean's gotten used to that now. He only jumps a tiny bit.

"To get Sam." He answers, the Impala's keys dangling from his fingers.

"But Sam chose to leave." The angel mumbles, his expression confused.

"Well since that was a stupid decision," Dean states, "I'm going to bring him back."

He knows the angel isn't exactly a fan of Sam's, but he could care less. He's going to get his baby brother back.

But Castiel simply nods his head, "I see. Good luck."

And with a flutter of wings, he's gone.

* * *

There's blood in the motel parking lot. Lots of blood.

The sight of it sends Dean's stomach sinking. It took him three hours to drive here and this blood might be a bit older. If it's Sam's . . . but he can't jump to conclusions. He checks the room number—458—and then knocks on the door.

"Sammy?" He calls out hopefully.

There's no response; he knocks harder.

"Sam? Open up."

Nothing.

"Fine. Have it your way." With one blow, he manages to break the door open. There are bloody sheets and clothes strew over the floor, but Sam isn't here. A medical kit is haphazardly tossed about, but no supplies have been taken from it. Whatever has happened, Sam is too out of it to take care of it himself.

He needs to find his baby brother.

Fast.

* * *

Sam can see the stars twinkling above him.

His body is cold, but it doesn't hurt anymore. He feels heavy and tired. He's not sure how he got to this field, but his legs won't work anymore. He's going to stay here until morning. He should feel scared, but mostly, he's just tired. He wishes Dean were here. He misses his brother, wants to tell him everything—about Ruby, about the powers, about what he's doing.

But he probably won't have a chance.

"Sammy!"

See, even his brain is playing tricks on him. Dean is gone. Dean thinks he's tainted, just like Castiel said.

Dean is never coming—

"Sam! Can you hear me?"

But his brother's voice is growing louder and more frantic. Sam can hear footsteps crunching in the grass. Could Dean have come for him? Despite everything?

"Sam!"

"M'here," He calls, but his voice is faint and the wind covers it up. He forces himself to try once more, summoning all of his strength, "Dean! Here!"

And then, moments later, Dean is there.

"I've got you," His older brother whispers, hoisting him up into his warm arms, "You're going to be okay."

Funny. That's the same thing he said at Cold Oak too.

"Sam? Hey, stay with me."

But Sam finds himself drifting once more and he lets go.

* * *

It's Christmas morning in the hospital and he's blissfully medicated, so much so that he doesn't feel the stiches that the doctors had to give him during his emergency surgery.

"When you get out," Dean says with a carefree grin, "We'll do a real Christmas, okay?"

Sam just nods, but his head is reeling. He can't get Castiel's words out of his mind. Tainted, liability—did Dean really agree with this? He had to know—

"Am I a liability?" He says and for the most part the words come out sharp, despite the medicine making him drowsy.

Dean stiffens, "What?"

"Castiel said—"

"You heard that?" Dean questions and Sam nods. Immediately, his brother glances away, ashamed.

"You agree." Sam deduces with a grimace.

"No, Sam, I don't." Dean retorts sharply. Then, running a hand through his hair, he sighs, "I just . . . look, ever since I've been back things have been different between us." Then, grabbing Sam's hand within his own, he insists, "But I don't agree with Castiel, okay? You didn't hear the whole thing. You didn't hear me tell him off. Look, you're my brother and I don't like what you're doing with Ruby, but I'm with you, okay? One hundred percent, I have your back."

Later, Sam will blame it on the meds, but in that moment, he's so touched that he begins to cry.

And Dean just smiles and holds him and says, "We're going to be fine, Sammy."

* * *

When he's released from the hospital a week later, he returns to their motel room to find a small Christmas tree decorated with newspaper wrapped presents under the tree.

Dean beams, "Merry Christmas, Sammy."

"Merry Christmas Dean."

It's perfect.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I usually never write Castiel when he was a mean angel so this was a nice change of pace! Please review if you have a moment. See you all tomorrow for the next chapter!_


	6. Magic

_**Author's Note:**_ _My apologies for not posting yesterday! Real life got insane and I was unable to find time to post. I will make it up to all of you tomorrow by posting two stories. Sorry for that! Once again, thank you all for the kind reviews! I'm so glad the stories have been entertaining for all of you. Today's prompt comes from_ _ **NeutralShooter**_ _who asked for, "Sam and Dean don't know how to properly celebrate the holidays so the trickster decides to teach them a lesson in the true meaning of Christmas and as usual Sam takes the brunt of his pranks." So, let's set this during season three? Thank you so much for the awesome prompt! I love writing things with the Trickster. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _I won't be seeing Santa Claus_

 _Somebody snitched on me_

 _He won't come visit me because_

 _Somebody snitched on me_

 _Next year I'll be going straight_

 _Next year I'll be good, just wait_

 _I'd start now, but it's too late_

 _Somebody snitched on me."_

— _Relient K, "I'm Getting Nuttin' For Christmas"_

* * *

The house is decorated perfectly.

The sparkling banisters are covered in shiny green tinsel with small-multicolored lights glowing. Stockings hang centered over the fireplace, each name carefully embroidered. The Christmas tree is nearly seven feet tall yet it doesn't even touch the ceiling of the house. The golden star on the top twinkles with LED lights and the golden ornaments catch the light, reflecting it. The presents under the tree are expertly wrapped and they're in various sizes.

It's this house that Sam wakes up in, with a confused Dean by his side. This mansion really with its spacious bedrooms that smell of peppermint and gingerbread and they wake up in separate bedrooms with a huge king sized beds decked out in red and green sheets.

"What the Hell is this?" Dean shouted and that's what awoke Sam from his sleep and honestly, he has no idea what's going on. This isn't the motel room they went to bed in and Sam can't help but sigh.

What mess have they gotten themselves into now?

Then there's the fact that the two brothers are wearing matching flannel pajamas. They're surprisingly comfy, but the youngest Winchester can't help but feel like he's starring in a Hallmark Christmas movie. What's next? He'll fall in love with the next girl he has to kiss under mistletoe?

"C'mon." Dean nudges him and the two move towards the kitchen. Numerous pots and pans are cooking and delicious smells emanate from the room. The kitchen has the makings of the perfect Christmas feast and really, this spread could put even Martha Stewart to shame.

"Well, this is . . ." It's not exactly the worst situation they've been in so Sam just shrugs, "Weird."

"Yeah." Dean mutters, as he surveys the space, "Just what is all this?"

"Christmas?" Sam ventures.

"A perfect Christmas."

"How did we even get here?" That's really the part that bothers the youngest Winchester. Their room was warded. Nothing should've been able to get in. Nothing that they knew how to stop, that is.

There's a jovial laugh from the other room, almost sounding too much like a familiar holiday figure.

"No way." Dean shakes his head in disbelief.

Yet the "ho ho ho" comes once more.

Like excited children, the two brothers can't help but rush back to the other room, trying to pinpoint the source of the laugh.

"Why so serious boys?" Santa Claus is over at the dining room table, eating some chocolate chip cookies. The jolly man in the red suit grins at them, taking another bite of the cookie, "You don't like my Christmas gift?"

"Santa?" Dean practically exclaims and it's funny, he hasn't Dean this excited since . . . well, never really.

"Dean Winchester," The jovial man grins, "Have you been a good boy?" But before Dean can answer Santa continues, "I don't think so. You're going to Hell," Santa's gaze drifts to Sam, "Because of your brother."

Sam's gaze immediately darts to the ground. He doesn't need to be reminded about Dean's upcoming death. He knows he's the reason Dean is going to die. He has to grapple with that every day and that's why he's trying so hard to find some sort of loophole to free his big brother.

"Santa—" Dean begins to protest.

That's when Santa snaps his fingers and the Trickster reveals himself.

"You!" Sam roars, wanting to hurl himself at the figure. After that time loop at the Mystery Spot, Sam swore if he ever got his hands on the Trickster—

"Easy, easy, Sammy," The Trickster smirks, taking another bite of a Christmas cookie, "You don't like my present?"

"Just what is this?" Dean growls, "Another loop?"

The Trickster sighs, "Guys, I never pull the same trick twice. No loop. Just Christmas!" He takes a step closer to Sam, beaming, "A perfect Christmas. Gotta say, the pathetic shindig you guys had . . . lame with a capital L."

"No one asked you." Sam mutters.

The Trickster laughs, "Awww, did I hurt your feelings, Sammy?"

"Forget this," Dean growls, "Sam, let's go."

The Trickster snaps his fingers once more and immediately snow begins to fall as the wind howls. The whole house seems to creak from the sheer force of the wind and the Trickster just smirks, "Oh no." He says, deliberately monotone, "A blizzard! Guess you guys are stuck here."

And that's when he vanishes.

* * *

Knowing the Trickster, there's some sort of lesson to be found here. Considering the Trickster's attention to detail, the lesson must deal with Christmas, but what exactly? He'd made fun of their own celebration, but why? Did he think it was too heartfelt? Or maybe not enough?

"Look, let's just wait him out." Dean suggests after he takes yet another glimpse outside. The snow is still falling and it's clear that they're not going anywhere today.

"He's the Trickster," Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair, "He wants to teach us a lesson."

"Ding ding ding!" The Trickster suddenly appears, clapping his hands together, startling the two Winchesters. Then, pulling a out a cheap, plastic gold medal, he hands it to Sam, winking, "Merry Christmas."

"You are so annoying!" Dean shouts, more out of frustration than anything. They were trapped in a house without any of their gear and no way out—it's Dean's worst case scenario.

"Ouch," The Trickster pouts, "Look, you're going to get coal if you keep whining."

Dean flips him the bird instead.

"Fine," The Trickster hisses, glancing at Sam, "You want out? Go out!"

And that's how Sam finds himself in the middle of a blizzard wearing nothing but thin flannel pajamas.

* * *

The first thing Sam does, once he recovers from the sheer shock of how freezing the wind and the snow are, is try to locate a familiar landmark. He can't see the house in this white wasteland and aside from a small tree next to him, the visibility is so poor that he can barely see five feet in front of him. He's stuck, wandering the icy wasteland. For all he knows, the Trickster sent him to Antarctica. Still, the rational part of Sam's brain that is somehow functioning despite the cold orders him to keep moving. Standing still is a death sentence.

So, picking a direction, Sam begins to walk.

And then he ends up on a beach.

* * *

"The fuck?" Sam breathes as his teeth begin to chatter. His body violently shakes and suddenly, Dean is there, wrapping a heating pad around him and rubbing his shoulders, "D-d-dean?"

"It's okay," Dean soothes, a tight smile on his lips, "You're okay."

"Yeah," The Trickster comments from the reclining chair where he lays, a fruity drink with a tiny umbrella in his hand, "Nothing like ten minutes of freezing weather to wake up the body."

There's something going on here, more than Dean is letting on, but his body is shaking too much for him to be able to focus on a thought other than "cold".

"I'll explain," Dean promises before shooting a glance at the Trickster. Then lowering his voice, "Later."

Sam just nods.

* * *

They arrive back in their respective bedrooms without any word of warning. One minute they're on the beach, the next they're back. The Trickster seems to have elected to remain behind and aside from a stuffy nose—Sam just knows he's going to get sick now—both he and Dean are okay.

It's a lucky break for both of them.

"The Trickster thinks I don't understand the magic of Christmas." Dean explains as he bundles Sam under yet another blanket.

Sam raises his eyebrows, "Really? You? Shocker."

Dean groans, "Look, the point is that unless we go all Lifetime touchy-feely, he'll keep us here. And . . . he'll hurt you to punish me."

Ah.

That's the part that's really worrying Dean. His older brother has always been okay with taking the brunt of the damage for Sam, but he's never been happy when Sam stepped up to take some of the burden off Dean's shoulders. Sam's not a kid anymore.

He can handle this.

So he simply takes Dean's hand within his own and squeezes it, a reassuring smile on his lips, "We'll figure something out."

* * *

The Trickster is, of course unpredictable.

"What? No true spirit of Christmas yet?" He exclaims as he finds Dean giving Sam a glass of orange juice in order to combat the incoming cold. As the Trickster observes this, he groans, hitting his palm against his forehead, "Seriously! Do I have to do everything?"

"Wait—!" Dean shouts, but it's too late.

The Trickster snaps his fingers and Sam finds himself on a deserted road with a car speeding right at him.

Luckily, he passes out the moment of impact.

* * *

In the darkness, there is no pain.

Sam sits and waits and wonders. If he dies, what will become of Dean? He wants to wake up, to comfort his brother who must surely be blaming himself for all of this. The youngest Winchester has to survive this and be able—

"Your brother," The Trickster sighs, suddenly materializing in the darkness, "Is the worst. And I mean the worst!"

"What are you—?" Sam begins to inquire, but he's quickly interrupted.

"I mean, I totally get you in a coma, on the brink of death, and does he give a coma confession? No!"

"Coma confession?" Sam echoes, his eyebrows knitting in confusion.

"You know," The Trickster gestures vaguely, "Like a 'I always loved you' or 'you have to come back to me'!" See? Coma confession!"

Sam just smirks though.

Dean would never confess such a thing, not when he showed it through his actions. If the Trickster were expecting a Hallmark movie, he'd be disappointed. Dean had never been a talker during a crisis. Instead, he would throw himself into taking care of whatever needed to be taken care of—managing medicine, using a wet cloth to lower fever, even just holding Sam's hand—that's how he showed he cared.

"You guys are the worst." The Trickster sighs and then he snaps his fingers once.

Sam falls.

* * *

Same bedroom, but this time, Dean is hovering above him, "Sammy?"

"I'm okay." Sam assures him, but Dean quickly embraces him, the hug almost painful. Still the youngest Winchester doesn't mind. He knows how panicked Dean must've been. If their situations had been reversed, Sam wouldn't have done much better.

"Just . . ." Dean grips him, like Sam is his last lifeline, "Don't go anywhere."

Sam just nods.

* * *

They try to escape the house, blizzard be damned, but the doors are conveniently locked. Nothing will break them down and the windows also refuse to shatter.

They are well and truly trapped.

* * *

So, they decide to get all Hallmark on the Trickster.

They play along with the Christmas feast, serving themselves and coming to sit at the grand dining room table. Dressed in fancier clothes, they pass the baked ham and other goodies back and forth.

Dean clears his throat a few times before starting, "Sam, uh, I'm really happy you're alive." It's stilted and awkward and while the words may be heartfelt the sentiment is not there.

"I really do love you, Dean." Sam says and God, this is awkward. They've never said these kind of things before, not even when they came close to dying.

"I love you too, Sammy—"

"God, stop, okay?" The Trickster is seated at the table, fake gagging, "You guys suck. Like don't even do that again."

"This is what you wanted, right?" Dean presses, "Christmas fluff?"

"I want drama! I want passion! This is just . . ." He gives it a thumbs down.

"Look, you picked the wrong guys," Sam remarks, "We're not touchy feely—"

"That's not true," The Trickster states, his expression sobering, "When you died . . ." And that's when his eyes light up.

Dean realizes what's going to happen a second too late.

"Sammy!"

But Sam doesn't get out of the way in time and before he knows it, there's a dagger in his chest and he's falling backwards.

"Sam! No, hey, stay with me!"

Dean's arms have somehow caught him and Sam leans into them because he can feel his blood pumping out of his body and it scares him. He's dying here, on this floor, leaving his brother alone again.

"Sammy, please!" Dean's crying. Dean needs comfort.

Sam reaches a hand up and touches his brother's face, wiping a tear away.

His strength is leaving him. His body is growing cold. He doesn't want to leave Dean but this isn't his call.

It's never been his call.

"Sam, no," Dean protests, "We can call for help—"

But help will never make it, not with this storm and their medical supplies are in the trunk of the Impala and who knows where that is.

No, this is the end.

"Dean." He forces his voice to be clear. His breath rattles as his chest tightens, but he keeps his gaze focused on his brother. He wants Dean to be the last thing he sees.

"Sammy—"

Why is Dean sad?

Sam's world starts to go fuzzy around him, but before he falls asleep, he has to make sure Dean is okay.

Echoes of Dean's voice ring in his ear.

 _That's my job right? Take care of my pain-in-the-ass little brother?_

That goes both ways, Sam thinks.

"S'okay," Sam smiles, his eyes falling shut, "S'okay."

"Sam!"

But the youngest Winchester is gone.

Drifting once more.

* * *

And then he wakes up in the motel room.

"Sammy!" Dean exclaims, his brother's hands checking his chest, searching for the now missing stab wound. When he is satisfied that Sam isn't going to bleed out, Dean tugs his little brother towards him, embracing him once more.

"The Trickster?" Sam manages to ask.

"Gone," Dean growls, "Bastard healed you after seeing me freak out."

Sam sighs, relieved.

"It's okay, Dean." Sam assures his older brother, but Dean keeps gripping him, as if he needs to assure himself that this isn't some dream.

"I almost lost you." Dean whispers brokenly.

Sam just holds him tighter.

* * *

A few days later, once Dean has calmed down a bit—he's still following Sam pretty closely, but he's been sleeping better—Sam buys him a slice of chocolate peppermint pie and asks, "Did you learn about the magic of Christmas?"

Dean doesn't say anything for the longest time and Sam wonders if it's too soon for this talk.

The eldest Winchester just smiles as he meets his baby brother's gaze, "Yeah. Guess so."

And that's the end of that.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I had a blast writing this chapter! Hope you all enjoyed! See you tomorrow with two new chapters! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	7. Skating

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today's chapter comes from_ _ **TotallyChic**_ _, who requested, "Frozen lake". Thank you for the prompt! One frozen!Sam coming right up. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _It's coming on Christmas_

 _They're cutting down trees_

 _They're putting up reindeer_

 _And singing songs of joy and peace_

 _Oh I wish I had a river_

 _I could skate away on."_

— _Sarah McLachlan, "River"_

* * *

Jess grins as she grips his gloved hands.

"You're doing great," She praises him, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Her eyes sparkle in the sunlight and as she gently pulls him onto the ice, he tries not to panic. Jess continues to grin, "See? Nothing to it!"

They're ice-skating in an empty rink. Jessica is a friend of the owners and they let her come and go as she pleases. His girlfriend is actually a really good skater—she used to figure skate as a child—and she often tells him how much she loves being on the ice.

So, as a Christmas present to her, Sam agreed to go with her to rink, despite the fact that he has never ice-skated in his entire life. In fact, he's pretty terrified he's going to fall and somehow trample Jess.

"I've got you." She soothes him and they're in the center of the rink.

Sam is still standing which, you know, is a small miracle considering how clumsy he usually is. No, for once, he's doing okay and it's so weird, having this experience now, at almost 20 years old. This is something he thinks Dean would really like—

No, don't think about Dean.

Dean made his choice.

"Okay," Jess lets go and skates a few feet away from him with a grace that he's never seen in her before. She motions for him, "Skate to me."

Sam takes a wobbly step, the skates sliding a bit too fast.

"Jess—" He's faced down ghosts and demons, but here he is, terrified of falling flat on his face in an ice rink of all places. It's crazy, really, but hey, isn't this what he wanted for so long? Normal fears and worries?

"You can do it!" Jess cheers.

Sam takes once more step.

And goes hurtling towards the ice.

* * *

"Sammy!"

The ice cracks with a deafening sound and before the youngest Winchester knows it, he's sinking. The water hits his body like a thousand tiny, sharp needles jabbing everywhere and anywhere. His lungs immediately constrict as his body processes just how cold the water is. Even with his heavy winter jacket and multiple shirts, the water touches everything, stealing his warmth away.

Sam forces his body to move and begins to kick, trying to get back to the whole of the ice where he fell. It's like his body can't understand what his brain is telling it—his movements are slow and sluggish. His heart pounds in his ears and he throws his hand out, trying to reach the ice. If he can just pull himself out, then he can deal with the hypothermia. But he'll drown if he stays any longer in the water.

This was supposed to be a simple hunt. The ice was supposed to be stable. At least, it had been when Dean was leading, but before the duo knew it, the ice cracked and now it was too late.

And it's funny, the silly things you remember when you're about to die. Little moments that, at the time had seemed inconsequential—Dean teaching him how to drive at 13; John helping him with his history homework and Jess gripping his hands as she led him out onto the ice rink.

That seemed like another life ago.

His body is heavy and he's sinking, the light from the hole in the ice getting fainter and fainter. He doesn't feel the cold anymore, no it's more like he's become one with the cold.

And then, the darkness envelops him.

* * *

His head hurts.

Leave it to him to somehow collide head first with the ice.

"Sam," Jess is fussing over him and she's biting her lower lip in that adorable way she does whenever she feels nervous, "I'm so sorry." She's somehow managed to get him off the ice and seated on a bench, which must've been quite a feet given how tall he is compared to her. She presses a bag of ice to the bump slowly forming on his head and he does his best not to wince.

"S'okay." He tells her softly. This is, in an odd way, one of the reasons he left home in order to experience normal things like this. In his old life, he never got a chance to go ice-skating nor would he ever have had the chance. They were soldiers in their father's eyes and while Dean was okay going along with that, Sam was not. That's why he left.

Maybe that's why Dean said nothing that night. It's funny how, almost two years later, his brother's silence still haunts him. He'll just be going throughout his day and boom, something reminds him of Dean.

And that pains Sam.

Because he didn't make the choice to cut his big brother out of his life. No, Sam wanted both John and Dean to come with him, to get out their doomed lifestyle. John had refused and in a way, through his silence, Dean had too. And even knowing that, it still doesn't lessen the pain Sam carries in his heart.

"Sam?" Jess' eyes are wide now and he hadn't even noticed the lone tear rolling down his cheek. He hastily wipes it away.

"It's nothing." He lies, but that's the thing about Jess, she can read him like an open book.

"I'm here." She wraps her arms around him and holds him. It's a different kind of safety, but he loves her completely and trusts her. Aside from Dean, she's the only one he can let his guard fall down around.

He misses his brother.

And Christmas time makes it harder.

"It's okay," She presses a kiss to his forehead as he continues to cry, "I know."

She doesn't. He's never told her the truth about his family other than a vague warning about how he didn't want to discuss it. But she had accepted that—accepted him—and it may not fill the void left by his big brother, but it helps.

"It's okay," She whispers once more, "I'm here."

He just pulls her close and holds her.

* * *

"It's okay," A voice soothes, a warm hand resting on his wrist, "I'm here."

Sam opens his eyes and meet's his brother's tired, but relieved expression. A heart rate monitor beeps steadily next to him and an IV bag is attached to Sam's arm.

"D'n?" His voice is rough and raw and before he can ask anything else, a glass of cool water is placed to his lips and Sam takes a measured sip, savoring the liquid sliding down his parched throat. Feeling a bit better, he takes a closer look at his brother.

Dean's a mess—his eyes are bloodshot, he's sporting five o'clock shadow, and his clothes are rumpled from obviously sleeping in them. They've been in the hospital for a bit then which is odd because the last thing Sam remembers is—

The lake. Freezing. Dying.

"How'd I get out of the lake?" Sam questions, clearly perplexed as to how he's still alive.

Dean smirks, "Dove in after you."

"You did what?" Sam hisses because Dean risked himself. Diving into the freezing water was a gamble that should've cost them both their lives.

"Sammy, relax," Dean soothes softly, "It's okay. You can yell at me when they discharge you."

"Why aren't you admitted?" Sam presses, "You were in the water too—"

"Not as long as you," The eldest Winchester points out, "Besides, Doc checked me over. I'm fine. You're the one who got the intense fever that almost fried your brain." There's forced levity in his big brother's tone, but the playfulness doesn't reach Dean's eyes. It's been a long couple of days filled with worry and uncertainty.

And yet, against all odds, here they are.

Alive.

"You should get some sleep." Sam tells him softly and Dean just chuckles.

"Such a worrier." Dean muses, but Sam can see his eyes drooping shut as the exhaustion finally takes hold. Now that Dean has seen that Sam is okay, the big brother defenses will start to fall, allowing the older brother to actually focus on taking care of his own needs.

It looks like they might spend Christmas in the hospital, but hey, they're both alive and together. Considering their lives, things could be worse.

 _Jess' smile as she led him out onto the ice, her warm hands holding his as she showed him how to skate._

Even now, it's funny what things trigger memories of her.

Part of him will always love her. Part of him will always grieve for her and what could have been, but as long as he's got Dean by his side, he will be able to get pushing forward.

Because that's the thing about life—it goes on.

But for now, he's content to simply let himself go back to sleep.

It may not be a perfect Christmas, but as long as Dean is here, Sam will take it.

Always.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I'm aware that I'm still a chapter behind. I had hoped to catch up today, but time did not permit that. Luckily, I will have extra free time tomorrow. So, please look forward to that. I loved writing this chapter and I hope all of you enjoyed it! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	8. Grief

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today's chapter comes from_ _ **BitterSweetJoy**_ _who requested, "Season 12, Mary's back: Christmas, British MOL still looking for/trying to take out Sam and Dean, the Steins . . . your choice how Sam is taken/ambushed/injured." Thank you so much for the awesome prompt! I have never really written as Mary before this collection of stories, so this allowed me to give it a try! I hope you enjoy._ _ **Spoilers for season 12.**_

* * *

" _And you, little son come safely home_

 _Riding the tail of the wind_

 _May you always come this safely home_

 _In winter, fire and snow."_

— _Anuna, "Winter, Fire And Snow"_

* * *

Mary will be the first one to admit how odd it is to be alive.

For her, it's like time has fast forward. She has no memories of her death, or where she was in-between. No, one second she was putting baby Sam down to sleep and the next she was sitting the Impala, meeting the gaze of her hardened and grown up eldest son.

Her boys are men now. Traumatized, broken, grinning, caring men.

And she missed it. All of their milestones, all of their important days—birthdays, holidays, even Sam going away to Stanford. She was dead in the ground and her boys and her husband walked down a dark path she never wanted for them.

So, now she grieves for her husband, but part of her grieves for her boys. At what they've lost—what they've sacrificed—over the years. She hasn't gotten the full rundown from Dean yet, but from the bits and pieces she's been able to gather, both of her boys have been to Hell (literally, she needs to remember that's actually a place) and back.

"Mom?" Sam leans in the doorframe of the kitchen, his puppy dog eyes seeming to pierce the very depths of her soul. It's funny, how sensitive and caring he is. He turned out to be everything she could've hoped and for and more. Both of her sons did.

"Mom?" Sam tries once more and Mary breaks out of her reverie.

"Sorry." She mumbles, nervously running a hand through her hair. It's hard not to let her mind wander as she tries to adjust to the new, unfamiliar world around. It's hard not to let herself get caught up in the past and all the what-ifs. Her life—her family's lives—they should not have turned out this way. This was not what she had planned on or what she had wished for.

She's a widow.

Her sons are practically strangers to her.

And it's slowly getting closer to Christmas and for once, Mary Winchester has no idea what she should do with her life.

"It's okay." Sam smiles at her—it reminds her so much of John's soft smiles when they first started dating—and places a warm hand on her shoulder.

They stand there in somewhat awkward silence.

"I'll bake something," She finally says, eager to break the stillness of the moment, "Would you like that?"

"Yeah, Mom, of course."

Ashamed of herself, Mary retreats to the kitchen, leaving her youngest son behind.

* * *

Mary rolls the sugar cookie dough with too much force. It spreads much too thin and quickly breaks apart into pieces. With a sigh, she grabs the pieces and reassembles the ball of dough before placing it back on the counter.

Baking Christmas cookies is supposed to relax her and take her mind off the fact that she feels like a stranger in a new world. But somehow, all she can do is reflect upon all that she has lost. This bunker is not her home. These men are not her boys. And her husband . . . her sweet, caring John, turned into a man she barely recognized and now, he too, is also dead.

Mary is alone.

"You, uh, making sugar cookies?" Dean's voice startles her and she immediately jumps, "Sorry!" Her eldest throws his hands up in submission and slowly comes into the kitchen.

"No, it's fine." She wants to scream at herself, to berate herself for being so foolish. She has a second chance at life with her boys. She can still protect them and make things better. She just . . . has to adjust.

Dean leans against the counter, watching intently as Mary carefully rolls out the dough. He smiles, a wistful look in his gaze, "You used to do this when I was little."

"Yes." Come to think of it, Mary had always used baking as a way to manage her stress. Whenever she got into a fight when John, she'd bake pies that would take hours and when the holidays rolled around, she would, more often than not, bake constantly as a way to deal with the nerves the season brought on.

"I'd try to eat the dough," He continues, voice contemplative, "And you'd—"

 _Dean's chubby little fingers trying to snatch one of her carefully cut out cookies. He'd only been three then, but Mary could tell how much of a handful he'd be when he grew up. Dean was charming—he'd have all the girls falling for him—but for now, Mary had to find a way to curb that deviousness. She settled for putting him to work, allowing him to help her pick what shapes the cookies would be and what the color scheme of the frosting should be._

Her eyes burn. A lone tear rolls down her cheek and she chuckles in disbelief as she wipes it away, "I'd have you help me."

"Your special helper." Dean's eyes are misty too. He pulls her into a hug and Mary wants to sob. This wasn't supposed to be her life. John and she were supposed to grow old together. Dean and Sam were supposed to get degrees, get married and just be normal.

That's all she wanted for them, the one thing she'd been denied—normalcy.

But even now, she knows it's not going to happen for any of them.

Perhaps this is their fate.

* * *

The angel—with a capital "A" because her life can't get any stranger—regards her with a curious tilt of his head. His cerulean eyes gaze at the multitude of cookies—more cookies than even her two grown sons can eat really—and his lips tilt ever so slightly upwards in a smile.

"Dean and Sam informed you were Christmas baking." He's always so formal whenever he speaks. The boys told her he used to be a lot more perplexing when they first met him, but Mary still can't quite get a clear read on him. He cares for her sons and they care for him so she'll accept him too, but really, an angel?

Her life can't get any weirder.

"Yeah," Mary replies softly, preparing the icing, "It helps me unwind."

"De-stress." Castiel murmurs and she nods.

"I made too many," She muses, running a hand through her hair, "I always do that—"

"I'm sorry." The angel blurts out.

Mary's eyes widen, "For what?"

"For the pain you must be going through."

She wants to scream or taunt him. What does he know of her pain? Why should she feel pain at all? This is a miracle! She's back from the dead. She has a new chance to be with her family. Really should be grateful—

"Thank you." She says instead because she can tell he's sincere. He means it. He understands her.

This must by why her boys like him so much.

* * *

Sleep doesn't come easily to her.

She often finds herself roaming the bunker halls early into the morning. Sometimes, she'll tire herself out by studying ancient Latin texts. Other times, just going for a walk outside will do the trick.

But tonight, it's almost 3:00am and she still is nowhere near tired.

"Here." Sam appears, seemingly out of nowhere, a mug in his hands. He hands it to her and she glances down at the frothy liquid in the cup. At her confused look he adds, "Dean told me that you would make him warm milk whenever he couldn't sleep. I thought maybe—"

She hugs him.

Because deep down, past the hardened exterior, these are the boys she raised. Even though she only had six months with Sam, she still feels a bond with him. She'd been foolish to try and run away from it.

"I'm sorry," She whispers, "For not being what you had hoped."

"Mom, no," Sam grips her tighter, "You're perfect."

She's far from healed, but for tonight, she feels complete.

* * *

She takes Sam out Christmas shopping. The duo need to get gifts for Dean, and she supposes by extension, Castiel, and in all honestly, she wants to get a chance to get to know Sam more. She doesn't have as many memories with her youngest that she does with Dean. Hopefully, by braving the hordes of crazy shoppers together, they'll be able to forge new memories.

"Does he still like to color?" She questions as she stares at a stack of adult coloring books—where were these when she needed them?

Sam's eyes widen, "Dean liked to color?"

Mary chuckles, "Yeah. Never in the lines. But he was quite the artist."

Sam is practically giddy now and Mary is sure he's going to file this under _things to use as blackmail against my brother_ but the mother can't help but chuckle.

"Tell me more!"

"Well, one time he decorated your nursery—"

"Yeah?"

"With a sharpie your father left out. He drew all over the walls. We had to repaint!"

Sam just laughs and Mary finds herself laughing too. There's lightness in her heart right now. The grief is still there, but she doesn't feel like it's suffocating her. Life, she supposes, does go on—

 _Bang_.

Pain blossoms in her arm and she glances down at the blood gushing from the hole in her shoulder. She's been shot. People are screaming and Sam is yelling at her, but she can't seem to hear him.

Something hits her head.

Then, darkness.

* * *

"Mom?"

She opens her eyes and finds herself on her bed in the bunker. Confusion knits her brow as she sits up and finds that her arm is healed.

"Castiel healed you." Dean explains quietly and Mary nods, quickly getting up. The room sways a bit and the angel steadies her.

"Easy," He cautions, "You lost a lot of blood before I got to you. You may feel some slight discomfort—"

She'd been shopping for presents. She'd been laughing, telling Sam—

"Sam!" She shouts as her eyes search the room for her youngest son.

"They've got him, Mom—" Dean explains softly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Who?" She growls because Hell hath no fury like a mother whose son has been snatched away from her. Mary may be rusty, but she still knows how to inflict some pain. She'll teach those bastards a real lesson in torture as soon as she gets her hands on them—

"The British Men of Letters." Castiel states.

"Okay," Mary sighs softly, "Then, let's go get him." She meets Dean's gaze, "You found him, right?"

"Right, but Mom, you were shot at—"

"I'm fine." She hisses. Moving towards the angel, she states, "Take us there."

No one gets away with taking her son.

No one.

* * *

Traveling via angel is still a weird experience. Regardless, as soon as her feet touch the ground in front of the abandoned warehouse—really, bad guys could be so predictable—she's already scanning for any guards.

"How many took him?" She asks her eldest as she loads her gun.

"Two." Dean supplies.

"Castiel," Mary turns to the angel, "Be ready to heal Sam." She doesn't know what kind of state her youngest is in, but she's willing to bet it's not a good one.

"Right." Castiel nods.

"Okay," Mary takes a step forward, "Let's go get your brother."

In the end, they're able to easily overpower the two underlings that dared to go after Sam. They'll be limping back to England now and they won't make the mistake of trying to go after one of her boys again.

"Easy." Mary soothes as she unties the ropes around Sam's arms and legs. Her youngest is slumped over in his chair, bruises littering his face. Blood dribbles down his lip and he's barely holding on to consciousness.

"Sam." Castiel kneels down before him, placing two fingers on his forehead. His grace goes to work, but a frown rests on his face. Some of the injuries have faded, but most have not.

"Castiel?" Mary prods after he says nothing for a few moments.

"It's almost as if they've found a way to block my grace."

"What?" She echoes in disbelief.

"I can't heal all of the injuries—"

"Okay, those two idiots won't be getting up anytime soon," Dean runs back into the room and seeing Sam, grimaces, "What's wrong?"

"I can't heal him," The angel growls.

"What?" Dean roars, "Why the hell not?"

"I do not know. They've found a way to block my grace—"

"How is that even possible?" Dean growls.

"If I knew I would inform you—"

Sam groans and Mary's heart tightens.

"Enough," She moves to her youngest and places a cool hand on his cheek, "Hospital. Now."

And they're all flying once more.

* * *

Sam's asleep and if it weren't for the steady beating of the heart rate monitor, Mary would be terrified that she had already lost him. So many bruises mar his entire body. The doctor spoke of internal bleeding, broken ribs and punctured lungs. Three hours of emergency surgery later and Sam's in a medically induced coma, the doctors hoping his body will fight to survive.

She places her hand on top of his, rubbing a small circles on his warm skin. He's so still like this and so small in her eyes, just like the Sam she put in that crib that night. But this stillness is not natural. This stillness could lead to Sam dying—

No. She won't think like that. She didn't just come back only to lose her son again. She refuses to allow that to happen.

"You fight," She whispers to her youngest, "I'm here."

She ordered Castiel to take Dean back to the bunker to get some rest—he had fought it for as long as he could until she pointed out the fact that he was about to face plant in the hospital room and the last thing Sam needed was for his big brother to get admitted too. She's alone here in this room and her son could be dying.

But she believes in him. She will lend him whatever strength he needs. She won't leave him.

Come what may, Mary will be here.

* * *

"Mom?"

She jolts back to awareness and meet's Dean's concerned gaze.

"Dean." She glances at the clock—6:00am. She'd only been asleep two hours then. She rises from her chair and goes to check on Sam. His vitals are still steady. His breathing is strong.

"He's a fighter, Mom." Dean tells her with a grin.

Mary just nods, "I know."

* * *

When Sam opens his eyes three days later, he just whispers, "Mom?"

She grips his hand within her own, "I'm here, Sammy."

Sam just grins.

* * *

One week later, they're back from the hospital and Mary finds herself back in the kitchen baking. She's still jumpy from the ordeal with Sam and as she rolls out yet more sugar cookie dough she can't help but feel grateful. Her sons are safe. They have an angel looking out for them—literally, she adds with a slight chuckle.

So, where does she fit into this? After so many years of being dead, does her presence really matter?

"Hey, Mom."

"Sam, how are you feeling?"

He comes to stand next to her and she hands him a cookie cutter.

"I'm fine. A little sore, but nothing out of the ordinary." He presses a candy cane cutter into some of the rolled out dough. He picks up a Christmas tree cutter and then cuts a few out of the dough.

"Sam . . . you know I love you and your brother, right?"

She hasn't told either of them that since she returned. She'd been so wrapped up in her own head and her own grief. She'd never stopped to count her blessings. Sure, that grief is still there, but it's more manageable now.

Sam beams, "Yeah, Mom, of course."

"Can I help?" Dean questions and Mary chuckles as he comes to stand on her other side.

"Here." Sam hands him a reindeer cutter and Dean begins to dutifully cut out cookies.

She takes a step back to wash the rolling pin and she watches her boys work to cut out the cookies. Her boys . . . they're still with her.

And maybe, this Christmas, they could make new traditions as a family.

Mary hadn't lost her whole life. She regained it.

This time . . . she's going to treasure it and make new memories.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Wow, that was way longer than I intended. Still, I had a blast writing Mary. Her struggle this season is something I really relate to. I hope you all enjoyed. Please review!_


	9. Parties

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **emelie0204**_ _who asked for, "Can you do a prompt where Sam and Dean visit Sam's Stanford friends for their Christmas party. I was thinking either Sam could be soulless or he could have a vision or he is being affected by the trials?" How about all three? Thank you so much for this prompt! Sam's past at Stanford is rarely mentioned in the show now so this was really fun for me. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _Just for a moment I was back at school_

 _And felt that old familiar pain_

 _And, as I turned to make my way back home_

 _The snow turned into rain."_

— _Dan Fogelberg, "Same Old Lang Syne"_

* * *

Despite everything that happened during her senior year of Stanford, Laura Danes knows her Christmas party is the one thing keeping her old friends together. Losing her best friend, Jessica Moore, in that horrible fire, watching Sam just really vanish—she'd been hoping he'd return back to school and heal with them.

But he never did.

So, really, when she writes Sam's name on the envelope containing her invitation, she isn't sure what she's hoping. He probably won't come. He's on a road trip with his brother and while they exchanged emails sporadically, he rarely said much about he was doing.

Laura missed Jess, a lot. There's not a day that goes by that something doesn't remind her of the kind blonde. A commercial for Jessica's favorite ice cream, passing by an outfit in the mall that she would've loved, well worn copies of Jane Austen novels sitting on her bookshelf—Jessica Moore is everywhere it seems. She knows her pain or grief could be nowhere near to what Sam must feel, but she hopes he'll come. If only to just assure her that he's doing okay.

So, she sends the invite and tries not to be all too disappointed when he sends her an email declining.

Well, Laura thinks, there's always next year.

* * *

"Sam?"

Laura does a double take at the insanely tall man standing in her doorway. He's a bit scruffy, but in his eyes is the same kindness that made him one of her closest friends. She quickly throws her arms around him, still in disbelief that he's actually come to her party.

"Hey, Laura." His voice is deeper than she remembers it, but when she breaks off the hug and really looks at him, she senses something almost off about him. Sam's changed . . . she's not sure how, but this isn't the same man who studied law with her at school.

"I'm so glad you came," She informs him and then her gaze shifts to the slightly shorter man next to the youngest Winchester. She quickly extends a hand out, "You must be Dean. Hi. I'm Laura. Sam and I went to school together."

His handshake is firm and there's a devilish glint his eyes as he smiles, "Nice to meet you."

Ah. Dean is definitely a charmer. A ladies man—Laura can see that now. The opposite of shy, quiet Sam, but still, she can tell by how close Dean is standing next to Sam that they must be close.

"Come in." She ushers them out of the cold and into the dining room. A buffet is spread out containing various dishes—soups, salads, a baked ham and other Christmastime staples. Under the sparkling Christmas trees, presents are carefully wrapped. She's glad she trusted her gut and got something for Sam.

"Thanks for the invitation." Sam murmurs and Laura feels herself beam.

"Anytime, Sam."

And as she watches Sam greet old friends and fall back into their group, Laura can't help but smile. She knows it's foolish to cling to the dream of her friends staying her friends for years to come, but she still believes in it.

Dean comes to stand next to her and whispers, "Thanks. He, uh, needed this."

"Of course."

There's so much she wants to know—where Sam has been, what he's been doing, if he's planning on coming back to school—but before she can ask anything, Sam is groaning as his eyes roll back in his head.

"Sammy!" Dean springs into action, grabbing Sam's arm and moving him towards the kitchen.

"It's okay." Laura assures her guests, though she has no idea if that's true. Quickly, she moves to the kitchen, her cellphone in hand.

"Easy," Dean whispers as Sam's eyes keep darting back and forth, almost like he's seeing something play out before him. The eldest Winchester rubs small circles on Sam's hand and continues to soothe, "It's all right."

After what feels like an eternity later, Sam exhales and slumps towards his brother's open arms. The youngest Winchester is pale and his breathing is much too shallow but he manages to say, "Washington."

Dean just nods, "Okay. Just give yourself a second."

Sam grits his teeth, "She doesn't have a second, Dean—"

"Are you okay?" Laura feels compelled to interject and immediately both pairs of eyes are on her.

"Fine," Sam tells her, "Just a migraine."

He's lying to her, but Laura doesn't know why.

"We have to go." Dean states, though there's remorse in his tone.

"Okay," Laura sighs. She leads them to the door and then quickly present Sam's gift to him. He opens his mouth to say something but Laura interrupts, "Just . . . promise me you'll stay in touch?"

Sam smiles, "Of course, Laura."

"Merry Christmas, Sam."

And then she shuts the door and returns to her party.

* * *

The emails last for one more year and then stop abruptly. Eventually, she's told his email address has been disconnected. Laura's sad, but this is life right? People drift apart?

She has to just focus on her life now.

* * *

She gets married two years later to a man she doesn't necessarily love, but one that cares for her and she respects. Only a few people from her graduating class come.

Sam's invitation rests on her desk.

She never could find his address.

* * *

Being pregnant sucks.

Still, she forces herself to throw her Christmas party because it's a tradition and even though she feels like she's going to throw up at any second, she gets all dressed up and does her makeup and puts on her heels.

"You look lovely." Her husband says as he presses a kiss to her cheek.

"Thank you."

Theirs is a cordial relationship, though not passionate. That's okay though. Over the years, Laura has learned that life doesn't always turn out to be the way you want it to be.

So, when she opens the door to see Sam Winchester once again standing in her doorway, she's shocked.

"Laura." He greets curtly as she comes inside.

"Sam," She whispers, totally perplexed. She hadn't even sent him an invitation. It's been years since she even talked to him. How had he gotten here? "It's been a long time."

"Yeah."

She senses immediately that there's something wrong with Sam. He's almost like a robot, just standing there in her living room. There's no kindness in his eyes. There's no spark of life at all.

"Sam—"

"I don't know why I cam here," He confesses, staring at her, "I thought I would feel something. Guess not."

He moves back towards her door and opens it.

"Sam, wait—"

But he's gone before she can say anything else.

* * *

She has a daughter.

Laura never knew she could care so much for another human being before holding her little girl. Now, she knows that everything she does will be to protect and support this new life.

"I've got you, Jessica," She whispers to the sleeping newborn, "Mama's here."

And she wonders what Jessica Moore would've said if she had been here.

 _She's beautiful, Laura._

The voice vanishes before Laura can focus on it.

Still, a tired grin comes to her lips.

* * *

Tonight, with Jessica off with her grandparents, Laura can actually get dressed up. Jessica is almost two and Laura has been a pretty hands-on mother. Still, as much she loves her daughter, she can't help but admit that sometimes, she needs a break to be an adult.

And tonight, at her annual Christmas party, she'll get a chance. As she slips on her silver heels and touches up the last bit of her makeup, Laura grins at herself in the mirror.

The doorbell rings and Laura does her best not to trip in her heels—it's been a long time since she wore them—and with a little bit less grace than she had been intending, she opens the door.

"Sam?" She blinks a few times because this can't be right. The man standing before her is clearly ill. His brow is covered in sweat, his eyes are glassy and his cheeks are fiery red.

"Hey, Laura."

She quickly ushers him inside and to a chair.

He begins to cough, a deep wet cough that rattles his entire body. He covers it with a handkerchief and when he pulls it away, Laura is sure she can see flecks of red staining the cream fabric crimson.

"Sam, you're sick." She feels like she's stating the obvious here, but it's been almost two years since she saw Sam and it amazes her how much can change in that amount of time.

"It's nothing." He dismisses.

"Sam—"

"Laura, I . . ." He's searching for words that just won't come. He sighs raggedly, "Do you think I could've been a lawyer?"

That's the last thing she ever thought he would say. Her eyes widen, "What?"

"If I had stayed, do you think I could've been a lawyer?"

"Of course," She replies without hesitation, "A better one than me."

He smiles wistfully at that and dread settles in the pit of Laura's stomach. She doesn't like the way this conversation is going. That, coupled with the fact that Sam is sick—

"Laura." He meets her gaze, "Thank you. For everything. I know Jess loved you like a sister and I'm sorry I was never there for you after she . . . passed."

She grips his burning hand within her own, "Sam, you don't have to apologize. Look, we were all kids then. We didn't know how to handle something like that."

They sit in silence for a few minutes before the doorbell rings once more. She hesitates before Sam points to it, "That'll be my brother."

Laura opens it and finds a very panicked older brother on her doorstep. He quickly marches into the room and kneels by his brother's side, "Sammy, you scared me."

"Sorry, Dean." Sam whispers.

"Come on, let's go."

Dean helps his brother up, supporting a lot of the younger Winchester's weight before guiding them back towards the door.

"Sam—" Laura starts, but her voice fades. She senses that there is a lot more going on here than she'll ever know.

"I know." Sam smiles at her as Dean nods.

The door closes behind them and Laura just stands there, bewildered.

* * *

"Honey, you got a Christmas card here." Her husband hands her the enveloped and Laura quickly opens it.

"Who's it from, Mommy?" Jessica questions energetically, practically bouncing up and down.

"Eat your breakfast," Laura tells her four year old, making sure Jessica takes another spoonful of her cereal before letting her eyes scan the card, "Oh."

 _Merry Christmas Laura. Hope you're well._

It's from Sam.

She chuckles, amazed by how Sam Winchester continues to show up in her life.

Life really just is full of surprises, isn't it?

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I always have fun doing outsider POV so I hope you all enjoyed this. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	10. Crash

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm finally catching up! Here's today's second prompt from_ _ **reannablue**_ _who requested, "Teenage new driver Sam gets hurt in an car accident when he heads out to buy Xmas presents for his family." Thank you for this prompt! I rarely write teen!Sam so this was super fun for me. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _The moon and stars seem awful cold and bright_

 _Let's hope the snow will make this Christmas right_

 _My friend the world will share this special night_

 _Because it's Christmas."_

— _Queen, "Thank God It's Christmas"_

* * *

"Dean, c'mon."

"No."

"I have my license now."

"So?"

"So, I can actually, you know, drive legally?"

"Maybe you can drive other cars legally, but no way am I letting you drive my baby—"

"Your baby? She's not yours! She belongs to Dad!"

"Right now, maybe, but he always lets me drive—

"Dean, give me the keys! I have to go do something!"

"What?"

"Not telling."

"Oh, so you want me to lend you the keys to my baby for some secret errand? Hell no, Sammy."

"She's not your car!"

John sighs before closing his journal. So much for writing down the latest information he had on the demon. How anyone could concentrate with his two boys shouting so loud that they could wake up half the neighborhood is beyond him.

"She is my car! And I said no!"

"Dean, it's important!"

He can't believe he's actually going to intervene in this argument, but his boys aren't acting their ages. Moving towards the kitchen, takes in the scene of Sam and Dean actually struggling over the keys.

"Boys."

They actually freeze and meet his gaze before breaking apart.

"Dad." Sam murmurs sheepishly.

John directs his gaze to his eldest, "Dean, give him the damn keys."

"But Dad—" The overprotective brother begins to protest.

"Now, Dean." This isn't open for discussion. He watches as Dean reluctantly hands over the keys and smirks at how Dean is actually pouting.

"Thanks, Dad." Sam is beaming and it's rare to see him so happy. Sam is a moody teenager and more often than not, he was often arguing with his youngest. It feels nice to be the good guy for once.

"Drive safe."

When he returns back to his journal and hears the blissful silence, he smiles.

Peace is once again restored.

* * *

Hours go by and it isn't until the sun goes down and the snow begins to fall that John gets an inkling that something might be wrong. He leaves his research behind and heads into the kitchen where Dean is nervously pacing the floor.

"You heard from your brother?" John questions though he can tell just by how nervous Dean is that Sam hasn't checked in.

"No sir."

John runs a hand through his hair and tries not to jump to conclusions. Sam left this morning to run an errand that he couldn't tell Dean. Christmas is coming up soon so that must mean his youngest went to go get their gifts. The nearest mall is an hour away, but even so, Sam should've called or come home by now.

"Dad—" Dean's panicked already and John doesn't blame him. Still, it's up to John to remain calm.

"Let's go." He grabs the keys to his truck.

If Sam is out there, they'll find him.

John just hopes he's wrong, that this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach is just worry and not a sign of bad things to come.

* * *

They interview staff at the mall (using their aliases as FBI agents, of course) and get the security staff to pull up the video footage. They scan through and find Sam going from store to store, buying gifs with a dopey grin on his face. It makes John feel relieved as he watches his son shop and by the end of the tape, Sam leaves the mall of his own accord and is safe.

So, if something did happen to Sam, it happened after he left the mall.

Or maybe John is just overreacting and Sam is back at the house they're renting, wondering where his father and brother are.

He thanks the security team and with Dean by his side decides to just make one more phone call. He knows Sam is a careful driver—more careful than even Dean or John—but other people are not and with the snow falling, the roads were going to be slick.

They'll just have to head back towards the house and see if they find anything.

John hopes they won't.

* * *

The Impala's front is smashed. The glass from the windshield is shattered into a million sparkling pieces. The other car that crossed the divide and hit is faring no better and as John listens (or tries to listen) as the Highway Patrol officer explains how the drunk driver hit his son. Of course, the poor officer doesn't know anything about Sam because he thinks John is an FBI agent and that's why John even knows anything about this accident in the first place.

"And the boy?" John presses.

The officer sighs, "Ambulance took him away. It didn't look good."

John forces himself to breathe.

"What hospital?"

"Mercy General, about ten miles east—"

Without so much as a goodbye, John is running back to his truck and flooring it.

He has to see his son.

* * *

Sam has so many tubes attached to him that John barely even recognizes his son. Bandages cover what's not already bruised and there's two I.V.s pumping liquids into his son's body. A heart rate monitor is the only thing assuring John that Sam is even still alive, but his body is broken that John wonders how Sam can even bounce back from this.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice is on the edge of breaking and John can only watch as his eldest grabs Sam's hand and with the gentlest of motions, holds it within his own. A soft smile alights on Dean's lips, "We're here, Sammy."

When Mary died, when his life was turned upside down, John thought he had nothing else to lose. Now, seeing his youngest slipping away from him, he sees how very wrong he is.

John steps out of the room and without any hesitation, punches the wall next to him. His hand stings, but the father doesn't care. Why is it always everyone around him that must suffer? First Mary, now Sam.

Why is it never John?

Why did that drunk hit him?

Why Sam?

It's not fair. It doesn't make sense, but that's life, isn't it. Life is cruel and takes whatever it sees fit.

But if Sam dies tonight . . . John knows he and Dean will die too. There will be no moving past it.

* * *

The doctor talks about post-operative infection, about a rising fever, about how Sam's breathing is growing shallower and shallower—it all translates to the same thing.

Sam's dying.

* * *

He sits by his youngest son's bedside.

Sam looks so small, just like he used to do as a child. He'd always get excited this time of year and want to hear Christmas stories about Santa or Rudolph. He'd sit in John's lap and talk for hours about what life had to be like in the North Pole or what kind of cookies they should get Santa this year.

"Fight this, Sammy." He whispers to his son's unconscious form.

John can't lose anyone else.

* * *

But, slowly, as the days get closer and closer to Christmas, Sam starts to improve. His fever breaks first. His breathing grows deeper and pretty soon, some of the tubes and bandages are removed. When Sam finally opens his eyes, he smiles as he sees his father and his brother. He falls back to sleep almost immediately, but John feels like he can finally breathe again.

Sam is going to make it after all.

* * *

They spend Christmas in the hospital.

"I'm fine." Sam insists and while John is inclined to believe him, for once he's not inclined to check him out AMA. This was too much of a close call. No, until the doctor signed off on it, Sam is staying in that hospital bed.

"We're staying." John informs him, his tone clearly not allowing any debate.

"But—" Sam starts to protest.

"Sammy, let it go." Dean says softly. His eldest is still jumpy. Whenever one of Sam's monitors even makes one beep of noise, Dean is the one who summons the nurses to check it out. The past few days though, nothing has been wrong in terms of the monitors and the beeping has been false alarms.

"What happened to the other driver?" Sam questions and John swears he sees red.

"He'll rot in jail," John snaps, "Damn drunk nearly killed you."

"But he was okay?" Sam presses and it amazes him how Sam can care so much for other people, even those who have wronged him. He got that from Mary, John's sure of that.

"Fine," Dean assures him, "But in jail for a long, long time."

John doesn't really believe in the legal system—well, mostly because he's always trying to outrun it—but he'll make sure that reckless driver gets the book thrown at him.

"Sam."

His youngest meets his gaze and John just wants to pinch himself. A week ago, everyone had been convinced Sam was going to die. Now, here he is, talking and breathing just fine.

"Dad?"

John pulls out a book from his bag, a dusty tome of Shakespeare he picked up during their last hunt. He knew Sam would love it—he was into _Hamlet_ right now, go figure—and as he hands the book to his youngest, John smiles, "Merry Christmas."

Sam beams.

Sometimes, John thinks of giving this whole life up, of taking his boys and going legit. They wouldn't be in danger anymore. John wouldn't have to chase down the demon. They could be . . . normal.

But John knows he can't do that. There will still be things that go bump in the night and the demon is still out there. The best way to protect his boys is to equip them with the knowledge that will save their lives one day.

Still, as he watches Sam excitedly show Dean the monologue he loves, John wonders what could have been.

He supposes, on Christmas, it's okay to wonder.

But tomorrow, they'll be back on their chosen path once more.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _And I'm all caught up! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	11. Fevered

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **Noxbait**_ _who requested, "How 'bout a Christmas story set in S11? They're on their way back to the bunker after a hunt somewhere snowy and are staying at a crappy motel. They wanted to be home for Christmas but Sam's come down with the flu or something and he's feverish (not to the point of delusions or confusion) and is absolutely, utterly miserable (or if you'd rather, he was injured on the hunt and is feverish from a bad infection and is absolutely, utterly miserable). Either way, Dean's doing his best to make Sam comfy and lessen the misery while they're both feeling disappointed they're not at "home" for the holidays. Somehow they manage to get each other thru the disappointment and misery while realizing all they really want or need for Christmas is each other's company and reflecting on how far they've come as brothers and partners in hunting." This is such a lovely, detailed prompt! Thank you so much for it! Please enjoy._

* * *

" _If you want_

 _To be happy in a million ways_

 _For the holidays, you can't beat_

 _Home, sweet home."_

— _Perry Como, "(There's No Place Like) Home For The Holidays"_

* * *

All in all, things could've gone a lot worse.

Really, Dean's got to hand it to them, they managed to do get rid of a ghost haunting a campground in the middle of a freaking snowstorm. Sure, the two Winchesters had nearly frozen to death, but the ghost is gone and now, they can finally make it back to the bunker to spend Christmas in front of a nice, roaring fire—

Sam sneezes.

"You okay?" Dean questions as they keep trekking through the snow. It's slow going and with the car still thirty feet away, it'll take them quite a bit longer.

"Fine," Sam mutters, though Dean can hear the fuzziness in his voice. When Sam sneezes yet again, he sighs, "Really."

"You're sick." Dean sighs raggedly, quickening his pace. The sooner they get to the car, the sooner they can get back to their motel room. If he got Sam warmed up and got some medicine in him, maybe they'd be able to prevent the worst of the illness from appearing until they got back home to the bunker.

"Am not." Sam retorts as he sneezes once more.

"Right." Dean retorts, aggravated. Because Sam doesn't just get a stuffy nose—no, when Sam gets sick, he gets extremely sick. Like high fevers and generally just feeling crappy. His little brother could never catch a break when it came to illness, which means it always falls to Dean to try and prevent things from getting too bad and fixing them when they do.

"Dean—"

But Dean just tugs on Sam's arm and pulls him faster.

Because knowing Sam, things will get worse before they get better.

And if they want to get home before Christmas in two days, they'll need to hurry.

* * *

"101.5," Dean sighs as he glances at the thermometer Sam has sheepishly handed him. Glancing at his brother's shivering frame and rosy cheeks, coupled with a stuffy nose and general complaints about aches and pains, Dean already knows what he's dealing with. Frowning, he says, "You have the flu."

Sam just gives him a classic bitch look, "No. Duh."

"Hey," Dean sharpens his tone, "Don't get pissed with me. You're the one who's sick."

"We have to go home." Sam pushes himself off the bed, swaying where he stands and quickly, Dean pushes him back down on the bed. They won't be going anywhere, not until this fever breaks.

"No, Sammy," The eldest Winchester informs him, "We're staying."

"Why?" Sam sounds like a petulant child, complete with the puppy dog eyes to go with it. As his baby brother folds his arms across his chest and sinks back onto the bed he presses, "We have to go home."

Because that's what the bunker is now, Dean realizes. Gone are the days of constantly shifting motel rooms. Now, they have a bunker where they've made memories. They have their own rooms. They have a kitchen where they cook actual food. Who knew that their lives would become so very . . . normal?

"You have a fever, Sam." Dean repeats, emphasizing the word fever. With Sam, fevers tend to strike him the hardest. Maybe it's because his immune system can't handle them anymore—could Hell have something to do with that?—but Dean isn't going to risk bundling Sam up and hoping his brain doesn't fry on the eight-hour drive home. No, until the fever breaks, they are staying put.

"It's almost Christmas." Sam pouts and Dean winces. They had plans for Christmas. Normal plans. Eating a fancier meal than usual while they exchanged presents wrapped in real wrapping paper. They'd been looking forward to this day for months really. Since the bunker became more than a place and more like their home.

"I know, Sammy," Dean smiles softly, messing up Sam's hair like he used to do when he was a teenager, "I know."

* * *

"102," Dean grimaces, "It's gone up."

Sam's face is flushed and his pupils seemed to have grown larger, though his baby brother's eyes can't seem to focus on anything. As his little brother lies on the bed, shivering violently and constantly shifting to try and find a comfortable position to lie in, Dean can't help but feel bad.

"I want to go home."

"I know, Sammy." Dean placates, counting out the dosage of the medicine and mentally calculating what time Sam can take more meds.

"Dean," His younger brother insists sharply and Dean glances away from the pills and meets Sam's fevered gaze, "I want to go. It's almost Christmas."

"You're sick, Sam."

"Then drug me up."

"You know I can't—"

Sam sighs dramatically before glaring at his brother, "You suck."

Dean just huffs out a laugh, "Love you too, Sammy."

* * *

"Sam."

" . . . what?"

"Are you still mad?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because I want to go!"

"When your fever breaks, we can—"

"Dean, just give me the damn medicine—"

"It's not time for your next dosage, Sam."

A long sigh.

"Sam?"

"We're going to miss Christmas."

Silence.

"I know, Sam."

* * *

Dean feels like he's playing whack-a-mole with Sam's fever.

It's taunting him, he's pretty sure. Even at three A.M. on Christmas Eve when all he wants to do is sleep, he can't because he knows the minute he shuts his eyes, Sam's body will decide to go into overdrive and the fever will spike. Sam is, of course, as miserable as he is. The fever is at the point where it makes him think he's extremely cold and since Dean has taken all his blankets—much to Sam's consternation—he can't sleep either.

"So, got any five's?"

Yes, they're playing Go-Fish. At this time of the morning, it's really that or just stare upwards at the ceiling and count the minutes until morning.

"Go Fish." Sam's voice is raspy, but he's a bit less congested than earlier so it's progress.

Dean draws a card and checks his deck, "How you feeling?"

"How do you think?" Sam retorts, coughing a bit before asking, "Got any two's?"

Dean hands over a card. Then, glancing at the clock, he reaches for the pill bottle, "Time for more medicine."

The fact that Sam takes it without complaint is a sign of how very sick he actually is.

Still, neither one of them is getting any rest tonight.

"Got any four's?" Sam questions.

Dean just grins, "Go fish."

* * *

"Hey, Dean?"

"Hmm?"

It's noon on Christmas Eve and Sam's fever is finally going down. This could be a rare chance for them both to get some sleep before it inevitably goes back up—things are never simple with Sam.

"Even if we can't go home . . ."

He sits up as his brother's voice trails off.

"Sammy?" He presses.

"Even if we can't go home," Sam repeats, a dopey, medicated grin on his lips, "I'm glad you're here."

Then Sam promptly passes out.

Dean, for his part, just laughs. But as he lays his head against the pillow to get some sleep, he can't help but agree with Sam. Maybe this isn't going to be the picture perfect Christmas they wanted at the bunker, but at least, they're together.

That's what matters.

* * *

"103, shit." Dean curses.

"M'fine," Sam's voice is weak, his syllables colliding with one another, "D'n—"

It's 6pm on Christmas Eve and Sam can't have another dose of medicine until midnight. Dean could risk giving him a bit more, but knowing Sam's body, it would backfire on him.

"You will be." The older brother assures him, placing a cool hand on Sam's burning skin.

In the meantime, Dean will handle this. He'll need wet towels and ice. If he can't medicate Sam, then he'll fight the fever the old fashioned way.

"Hey." Sam grips his hand, "S'kay, D'n."

His baby brother's face is flushed, his hair sticking to the sweat of his brow, but here he is, still trying to calm Dean.

This . . . this is what is important. Not spending Christmas at the bunker with the tree and presents. Being with Sam, helping him and being helped in returned, that's all that's ever mattered to Dean.

"I know, Sammy," Dean smiles, "I know."

* * *

"I used to be an addict," Sam muses, "I was a jerk."

Fever of 103.5 ladies and gentlemen.

"You weren't a jerk—" Dean feels compelled to point out.

Sam continues, "We saved the world."

"You saved the world," Dean murmurs, "I just . . . watched."

"No," Sam whispers, voice ragged as his eyes mist over, "No, Dean. You kept me going."

It's amazing how such a high fever causes Sam to say whatever he's thinking about. He has no filter. Dean isn't sure whether that's a good thing or a bad one. Still, the medicine should, hopefully, be kicking in soon and they can get a few hours of rest—"

"Dean." Sam insists sharply, "I mean it."

"Yeah, Sammy, I know."

"We've come far." Sam whispers.

Dean just nods, "Yeah, Sam, we have."

They've overcome Fate, Heaven, Hell and the Devil himself. They've faced down angels and demons and lived (for the most part) to tell the tale. Really, their lives, they're so fucked up and yet, they still find things to smile about. They still find things to protect.

Without each other to lean on, Dean knows he would've never made it this far.

Without Sam in his life, Dean is just a shell, an empty body walking around with no purpose.

"Get some sleep, Sammy."

With any luck, his fever might break tonight.

* * *

At one in the morning on Christmas morning, Sam's fever breaks.

"Christmas miracle." Dean chuckles as he climbs into his own bed. With Sam peacefully sleeping, they should be good to go in the morning, provided the fever didn't reappear.

They've come far. They've evolved from hunters chasing their father's shadow to men trying to forge a life for themselves. They've met amazing people and lost them over the years but still, they've found a reason to keep going.

And Dean knows, as long as he has Sam, he will be okay.

"Merry Christmas, Sammy."

As he shuts his eyes, Dean just knows, everything will be okay.

After all, with Sam by his side, there's nothing he can't face.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I love writing feverish Sam so this was a fun prompt for me. Hope you all enjoyed. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	12. Storm

_**Author's Note:**_ _Thank you all for all the kind words. I'm glad you guys are enjoying this collection of stories as much as I am writing them. I really look forward to this collection every year. Today's prompt comes from,_ _ **TrustTheCloak**_ _who requested, "How about Sam and Dean are lost in a snow storm, with Sam hurt from the thing they were hunting? Dean goes into big brother mode and has to figure out how to get them safe." There is nothing I enjoy more than a worried!Dean and bigbrother!Dean story. Thank you for this prompt! Let's set this in season 7._

* * *

" _Oh the weather outside is frightful_

 _But the fire is so delightful_

 _And since we've no place to go_

 _Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."_

— _Michael Bublé, "Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow"_

* * *

Really, they had a plan. A solid plan. A detailed plan with multiple exit strategies. Go into the abandoned cabin and salt and burn the snow globe keeping the vengeful spirit in this realm. And all in all, confronting the ghost went pretty well.

Except Sam got hurt.

Bastard spirit managed to hurl a piece of broken glass at his baby brother and before Sam could even react, it had pieced Sam's gut, embedding itself pretty deep. Normally, Dean would've holed up in the cabin and patched Sam up, but there was one tiny, minor detail they forgot to account for in their detailed plan.

The giant snowstorm currently heading for them.

Dean foolishly thought they could outrun it, but as he and Sam struggle against the icy winds and poor visibility, the eldest Winchester can admit that they screwed up here. If they don't die of hypothermia—they're pretty bundled up with coats and layers, but the temperature is dropping—Sam might just die of blood loss. An exposed cut in this kind of weather could easily lead to infections and really, the sooner they found the Impala, the better.

He spares a glance at Sam and grimaces at how red his little brother's cheeks are, a sure sign of a fever. As the wind howls, he shouts, "Just keep moving!"  
Great advice, he thinks, because that's easy to do while caught in a snowstorm.

Still, they really have no choice. It's either freeze to death or keep moving.

* * *

Sam isn't sure whether he's seeing see things because of a fever or because of his broken wall.

"Great," Lucifer sighs, the Devil dressed in an oversized parka with a fur hood, "So now you blame your fake reality on a fever? Classy Sammy."

They've been in the storm for what feels like an eternity and really, the youngest Winchester just feels numb. Except for gut—that's on fire. As blood drips from his bloodied bandage and stains the snow crimson, Sam can only morbidly wonder how many more drops it will take before he's dead.

"Too many," Lucifer groans, jumping back into Sam's vision, "Just lay down, Sam. Take a nap." He smirks, "Then you'll see that none of this is real."

It's tempting to take the Devil up on his offer. It's freezing and Sam's legs can barely move. It's bad enough that the wind is threatening to topple him, but the visibility is shitty at best. In fact he doesn't even know if Dean is still—"

"Shit," Sam curses, putting the pieces together, "Dean?" He hasn't spoken to his brother in like ten minutes. In fact, Sam can't remember the last time he saw his brother. He hadn't been paying attention and now Dean is gone and Sam? Sam is as good as lost and alone in this storm.

Lucifer claps his hands together and chirps excitedly, "Oh, Sammy, now things are getting good!"

"Dean!" He yells until his throat is raw, but it does no good. The wind drowns him out and he doesn't even know in what direction Dean might be. Sam's world is white and nondescript. For all he knows, he's been walking in circles.

"Just give it a rest, would you?" Lucifer grouses, "Big bro is gone. He was never even here. I mean, let's face it, Sam you're with me—"

"Shut up!" Sam snaps, ripping off one of his gloves and digging his fingernail until he breaks the skin and more blood stains the snow crimson.

Lucifer disappears, but his chuckle still lingers.

Sam stumbles, falling into the snow. He pushes himself out, only to find he has no strength. He's tired. Why is he walking again? What is he looking for? Dean? Dean would want him to rest until he comes back. Sam will just take a small break.

Five minutes won't kill him.

* * *

Dean doesn't know how he lost Sam exactly, but that doesn't matter. What matters is finding Sam and getting them the Hell out of this storm. Even he's starting to feel the effects of it now, the numbness in his body, the lethargy starting to take hold. Still, he can't give up. Sam is hurt and out there by himself. And if today's bad day and he's seeing Lucifer—

No, he can't think about that right now. What matters is finding Sam. Anything else, Dean can deal with. Just as long as he has his brother by his side, there's nothing he can't overcome.

"Sammy!" He shouts, but the howling wind is his only reply. As he glances at the white wasteland, a flash of crimson catches his eye.

Blood.

It could be from an injured animal, but Dean would bet everything that it's Sam. And as grim of a breadcrumb trial it is, it's still a lead, one that he must take. So, following the blood drops, he forces himself to stay calm.

Sam is fine.

Sam will be fine.

And if he's not, Dean will fix it.

Simple as that.

* * *

"Gotta say, Sammy," Lucifer lies next to him, making a snow angel, "I always expected you to die, you know, quicker."

Sam doesn't say anything. His lips are frozen and he's too tired. All he wants to do is sleep and get away from the noise of the storm. He doesn't have the energy to deal with Lucifer, not now.

"I mean, it's taking a really long time," Lucifer cranes his head to meet Sam's gaze, "Don't you think?"

"Sammy!"

"Dean?" His ears perk up at that, but the wind is soon howling again. Maybe it was a trick of his imagination?

"Sammy! Where are you?" The voice is closer now and Sam feels a sudden burst of energy. Lifting his bare hand, he begins to wave it.

"Dean." His own voice is so weak, so pathetically quiet.

"This isn't real, Sam—"

"Shut up," Sam growls. Then, louder, "Dean! I'm here!"

And suddenly, Dean is hauling him up from the snow.

"Sammy, damn, you're like ice." Dean's hands start to rub his arms, generating friction, but it's not enough heat to dent this ice his body seems to have turn into.

"D-D-Dean." Sam's teeth start to chatter and suddenly, Dean is tugging him along.

"Just hang on," Dean says soothingly, "Just hold on for me, Sammy."

"Kay." And really, Dean's doing all the work now since Sam is barely moving his legs.

"Whatever," Lucifer sighs, his arms folded across his chest, "You're both going to die anyways."

For once, Sam is inclined to agree with the Devil.

* * *

Dean's out of ideas and out of energy.

Sam collapsed, sending both the Winchester hurtling to the ground. His little brother is unconscious and Dean finds his own eyes drooping. For once, he won't be able to get them out of this one safely. They're going to die here, in this snowy wasteland, but at least they'll go out together.

Reaching for his brother's hand, he squeezes it as his eyes fall shut.

At least, they're together.

And then Dean is gone.

* * *

Dean's eyes fly open and he shuts them immediately once they come in contact with the harsh fluorescent lighting. His brow furrowing, he cautiously opens his eyes once more. This doesn't look like the forest he was dying in. In fact, Dean actually feels warm and as he takes in his surroundings, he notices an I.V. pumping liquids into his body and a heart rate monitor attached to his chest. So, he made it. And Sam—

Oh, God, Sam!

"Easy," A gruff voice soothes, placing a hand on Dean's chest, "Sam is fine."

"Bobby?" Dean murmurs as the older hunter comes into view, "How'd you—?"

Bobby narrows his gaze, "You mean how did I manage to find your frozen asses and save the day yet again?"

Dean swallows nervously, "Uh . . . yeah?"

"Well, unlike you two idjits, I check the weather," His expression soon sobers, "When I found out you two were caught in the middle of the damn thing, I called up my contacts with the Park Rangers—"

"You have contacts with the Park Rangers?"

"If I didn't, you'd be dead by now. They found you and brought you to the E.R."

Dean nods. He has no recollection of being found, but he's grateful—now, more than ever—that Bobby has so many friends in high places. If not, Sam—

 _Crimson blood in the snow._

"Sam was bleeding!" Dean exclaims, moving to toss off his blanket, only for Bobby to restrain him once more.

"Would you just stay put?" Bobby hisses, "Sam is fine. He's resting right next door—"

"I want to see him—"

"You will—"

"Now, Bobby—" Part of him won't feel settled until he lays eyes on his baby brother's frame. It was his fault they were out in the storm in the first place. If Sam died—

"Dean," Bobby softens his tone, "He's fine. I promise. Doc stitched him up and treated you both for hypothermia."

"But he has a fever—"

"Had," Bobby corrects, "It broke yesterday. Dean, you've been out a bit."

"So . . ." Dean's voice trails off as he connects the dots, "Sam is fine?"

Bobby chuckles, "I can take care of him too, you know."

"I know that, Bobby, it's just—"

Bobby pushes a wheelchair forward and motions for Dean to get in it. When the eldest Winchester raises his eyebrows in disbelief the older man continues, "You're still hurting. You want to see him, you use this. If not, you can stay in bed."

Dean relents.

Because what other choice does he have?

It's Sam, after all.

* * *

When Sam opens his eyes and sees his brother's visage, he beams.

"Heya, Sammy."

The details of how they escaped their snowy demise don't really matter. As long as Dean is there, smiling, Sam knows that everything will be okay. As he reaches out and grabs his older brother's hand, Sam grins.

"Hey, Dean."

As long as his big brother is here, everything is right in Sam's world.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I really loved the scene between Bobby and Dean. It's always fun to write as them. Thanks for reading! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	13. Spirits

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm one chapter behind and probably will not be able to catch up until Thursday. Sorry for that! In the meantime, today's prompt comes from_ _ **ktdog1**_ _who requested, "What about a Christmas where the bros are going after Jack Frost, only for the winter spirit to get his hands on Sammy, and curses him to slowly to into an ice statue of himself? Now, Dean has to figure out to how fix Sam- and fast, because otherwise, he'll end up with a literal ice statue instead of a brother." This was a really interesting prompt! I don't think I've ever dealt with Jack Frost before so thank you for challenging me! Let's set this in season two. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _Chestnuts roasting on an open fire_

 _Jack Frost nipping at your nose_

 _Yuletide carols being sung by a choir_

 _And folks dressed up like Eskimos."_

— _Nat King Cole, "The Christmas Song"_

* * *

Dean would like, for the record, to set something straight. He did not want to do this hunt in the first place. Really, maybe when he was younger and stupider he thought that everything and anything supernatural should be killed, but he's matured a lot over the years. Not everything supernatural is bad.

And he's not just saying that because Sam has suddenly started having visions or because John told him that he would—

No. He won't think about his father's last order. Sam won't go dark side. It's not happening. Not on Dean's watch.

Anyways, Jack Frost probably should've been left alone.

What had the winter spirit ever done to people really? Ice their crops? Bring about a harsh winter? Dean had been content to leave it alone, but as the days to Christmas became fewer and fewer, Sam kept finding articles about people being found in the snow, completely frozen.

"Like ice statues, Dean." Sam had insisted, voice sharp in that way it gets whenever his baby brother is passionate about something.

So maybe Jack Frost had gotten a little vengeful. Maybe these people had offended him somehow. Dean had been content to leave it alone, at least until after Christmas—

"More people will die in the meantime!" Sam had snapped, "Is that what you want?"

Of course it wasn't, so yes, Dean caved. He gave in. He let Sam research the spirit and the two prepared to go out into the storm to find him and end his frozen reign of terror.

Look back on it now, he wishes he'd stopped it all.

But, now, as he watches his little brother slowly turn to ice before him, Dean realizes it's too late.

* * *

They'd gone out to the site of Jack's two previous kills. It was nothing more than a snowy glade with a few pine trees and a frozen lake. Maybe during the summer it was a camping spot, but during the winter, there seemed to be not spot for someone to set up camp and enjoy the icy nature.

"How do we summon him?" Dean questioned and Sam pulled out a folded piece of paper from his jacket. Unfolding the crumpled piece of paper, his brother had read a Latin text and before they knew it, Jack Frost stood before them.

"Well," The spirit muttered, sizing them both up, "It's hunters." He didn't look quite like Dean had expected. In his mind, he'd pictured a distinguished man in a blue suit, waving his staff around to spread the winter. Instead, here was a roguish kid in jeans and a pullover, a smirk on his lips.

"Jack Frost—" Sam began, but Jack held his hands up, stopping him.

"Look, let me save you some trouble, okay?" He took a step forwards, the smirk still firmly in place. "It wasn't me." When the hunter didn't say anything, he sighed and added, "You know, the frozen bodies? It wasn't me."

They should've stopped right there. They should've been on their way and taken him at his word.

They did not. If there's one thing that the Winchesters have in common, it's their foolish pride. John had passed that down to them too, along with a mistrust for anything not human.

"Of course it was you," Dean growled as he pulled out his gun, "Who else could it be?"

"We have to stop you." Sam murmured.

"I didn't do anything." Jack hissed, his voice lowering. Snowflakes fell around him, as the temperature outside seemed to drop by at least 20 degrees.

Dean isn't sure who attacked whom first. A burst of cold wind blew through him. He heard gunshots and Sam's muffled voice and then, when the snowstorm finally ended, Jack was gone and Sam on the ground.

"Sammy!" Dean quickly pulled his youngest brother out of the snow, eyes scanning him for any injuries, but surprisingly, Sam seemed fine. A little winded sure, but there was no blood or bruising. "You okay?"

Sam seemed just as puzzled as Dean was, "Fine. Is Jack gone?"

One quick glance around the glade assured them that yes, Jack Frost had fled the scene.

"So," Sam dusted some snow off his hair, "What now?"

Dean just shrugged, "Now, we just head back."

The fact that Sam didn't argue back probably should've been a warning flag of things to come.

* * *

Sleep eluded him.

John's voice kept ringing in his ears. His last order is forever on repeat and God, it makes Dean sick to think about it, to even consider the fact that they're father was considering—

Sam can never know. It would kill his baby brother. And of course, Sam would find some stupid twisted logic that would result in him trying to convince Dean to shoot him because, honestly, his little brother has the biggest savior complex Dean's ever seen. Sam is so selfless—he always has been—and if he ever found out the secret Dean was keeping from him . . . it would not end well.

But keeping a secret—especially such a big one—from Sam went against everything he ever knew. They didn't keep secrets. At least, before Sam went to school they didn't, but now, they were finally getting back to where they were and now . . .

Now Dean might have to kill Sam.

"Dean?"

The eldest Winchester startled, sitting up in his bed.

"Sam?" He questioned, glancing over at Sam who was also sitting up in his bed, but staring at his fingers. When he didn't respond, Dean pressed, "Sam? What is it?"

"My fingers are frozen." Sam stated numbly.

"Yeah?" Dean glanced at the piece of junk heater that died on them 30 minutes ago. He hadn't thought the room had gotten too cold, but maybe Sam needed an extra blanket—

"Dean," There was an edge to Sam's voice, a terror laced within the words that caused the eldest Winchester to toss off the blankets and move to his brother, "Look. They're frozen."

And that's when he saw Sam's frozen solid fingertips.

* * *

Which leads them to now.

Sam is slowly freezing—turning into a human popsicle—and even though he's bundled up in every blanket they have, plus an electric heating pad, nothing seems to stop the steady progression of the ice. Sam's hands are pretty much frozen solid but once the ice got to his lung or heart—game over.

Dean's tried everything in the mean time—various blessings, remedies to cure supernatural ailments—nothing works. He even called Bobby, but the gruff hunter had no clue how to reverse this. He was looking for a solution, but so far, nothing seemed like a solid lead.

"Jack." Sam whispers, his teeth chattering.

"We are not going after him again—"

"If he did this, then he can undo it—" Sam argues, but Dean doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want to anger the spirit again. Plus, if Jack decides to curse Dean too then they are well and truly screwed.

"Sam, I'm not—"

But, of course, that's when the door blows open as a gust of snow fills the room. When it ends, Jack Frost is sitting on the edge of Dean's bed, a smirk on lips.

"You—!" Dean reaches for his gun, but Jack, with a wave of his hand freezes it solid.

"Listen," The spirit begins, voice unusually serious, "I need your help."

That's the last thing Dean expected to hear.

* * *

"You sure about this?" Sam questions as Dean layers yet another sweater on top of the two previous ones he's got on.

"Look, if it's true that a snow woman—"

"A Yuki-onna," Sam interjects, "A female Japanese ghost, usually someone who frozen to death—"

"Right," Dean zips up his jacket and puts on his gloves, "If I get rid of her, Jack will help you."

"We think." Sam grouses and Dean shoots him a tight smile.

"Yeah, well, I'm willing to chance it." He'd be willing to bet anything as long as Sam was okay. If doing a favor for Jack Frost would save Sam, then so be it.

"Don't look the ghost in the eyes," Sam warns him, "They're beautiful. They can freeze you with just one glance—"

"Got it," Dean feels like he's going to overheat in all these layers, but it's best to be prepared. You never know what can go wrong on a hunt, "How do I kill it?"

Sam turns his head towards a flask of hot water.

Dean raises his eyebrows, "Seriously?"

"Look, Bobby said Yuki-onna go when spring comes but the only lore he has where someone got one to leave before then was a man who threw hot water at the ghost and she melted."

"Like the Wicked Witch of the West?"

Even freezing to death, Sam finds it amusing, "Yeah."

"Awesome." Dean sighs.

He hesitates a moment before grabbing the flask. His brother needs him to go, but leaving Sam while he is quite literally turning to ice terrifies him. What if something was to happen while he was gone? Dean would never forgive himself. Still . . . if this works and he gets rid of the Yuki-onna, Sam will be saved.

And really, at the end of the day, that's all that matters.

"I'll be fine, Dean." Sam assures him.

Dean just grins.

And then he goes outside, closing the door behind him.

* * *

He finds her just standing in the middle of the glade. Long, flowing raven hair kissing the creamy kimono she wears, the same color of the snow that falls. She's beautiful, even from the back he can tell, with an almost ethereal glow about her.

"Hunter."

And then suddenly, her eyes are piercing his and Dean tries to look away, but he's locked in her gaze. Ice begins to consume him. His heart beat pounds and he knows this it. He and Sam will just be two frozen blocks of ice—

"I don't think so!" A body slams into his and Dean finds himself falling onto the snow. As soon as the eye contact is broken, the ice recedes and Dean quickly jumps up.

Jack is squaring off with the ghost now.

"Why are you here?" Jack questions her, "This isn't your domain."

She doesn't reply.

"Why?" Jack tries once more.

"I am gone," The spirit murmurs, "What does it matter where?"

Dean finally manages to unscrew the cap off the thermos and hurls it at the Yuki-onna. As soon as the warm water hits her, she dissolves. A gust of wind blows and then, there is no trace of her. It's just the hunter and Jack. Dean turns to face the spirit.

"Sam—" The older brother starts.

"He's fine," Jack dismisses with a shrug, "In fact he was never in any real danger. I just needed to motivate you to come and get rid of her."

Dean narrows his gaze, fury coursing through his veins. This spirit used Sam to get him to do something? Being treated as a puppet is bad enough, but hurting Sam? That crosses another line entirely.

"Look," Jack holds his hand up and Dean finds his feet locked onto the ground, unable to move, "I get it, you're pissed. Fine. But let's be real for a second," Jack takes a deliberate step forwards, "You're brother isn't exactly normal. He doesn't know, does he?"

Dean doesn't answer, choosing to glance away instead.

Jack scoffs, "That's what I thought." The spirit begins to step away before turning around, "Free piece of advice Dean? Tell him. Otherwise," Jack smirks, "Someone else will. And trust me, they won't be as nice as I am."

"Nice—?" Dean starts to exclaim, but Jack waves.

"Later, Dean. Thanks!"

His feet are freed the moment Jack vanishes.

But the spirit's words still echo in his mind.

* * *

When he returns, Sam is back to normal.

Really, it should make Dean happy and he supposes he is, but the secret—John's secret—is eating him alive. Should he tell Sam the truth? If he did, this horrible weight would be lifted off his shoulders. Dean could actually breathe again.

But then that weight would be on Sam's shoulders and his baby brother would not handle it well. No, for Sam's sake, Dean couldn't say anything. Not now. Hopefully not ever.

Sam is Sam—that's all that matters. He's not a monster that needs to be taken out. He's just Dean's baby brother. He'll always be Dean's baby brother.

"Dean?" There are those giant puppy dog eyes again, the ones that draw every living person in. Sam could abuse those eyes, get anyone to cave to whatever demand he has, but he doesn't. Sam probably doesn't even realize that.

Sam can't be a monster.

"Dean?" Sam tries once more, "You okay? Did the Yuki-onna—?"

Pulling Sam into a hug seems like the most natural thing in the world.

He won't tell Sam. He'll bury this secret and go to the grave with it. He'll protect Sam and keep him safe.

Because, really, that's Dean's job.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I really had fun with this prompt. I hope you all enjoyed! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	14. Believe

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm behind, I know, I'm sorry! The past few days have been hectic with holiday travel and just the general craziness that comes this time of year. I'm hoping to catch up soon but for now, here's today's chapter. It comes from_ _ **Kpyle**_ _who requested, "I would love to see a fanfic with a mall Santa (maybe a Dean is an elf joke in there somewhere)." This is a really original prompt! Thank you for it! Let's set it in season 8, towards the later end of it. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,_

 _And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!_

 _A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,_

 _Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread."_

— _Clement Clarke Moore, "Twas The Night Before Christmas"_

* * *

So, just for the record, Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve sucks.

Granted, if Sam had the time, he would've gone shopping days ago, but he and Dean had been buried in research for the Trials and honestly, the youngest Winchester had been battling a high fever for the past week and while he still had it, he managed to lower it enough that he just felt warm, rather than completely miserable.

So, all things considered, things could be worse.

"Excuse me." A woman with about five different oversized Macy's bags pushes past him, the bags jostling him.

He bites his lower lip as pain radiates outward—another perk of being the Trials chosen warrior—but keeps moving. He has a list of things he wants to get for his brother and he'll be damned if he lets a crowded mall or the Trials stop him.

Dean has pretty much put his life on hold since Sam started the Trials. His older brother doesn't go out to bars anymore or shamelessly flirt with any pretty girl that catches his eye. Of course, Dean denied that he missed going out and turned down any chances to go out, choosing instead to stay inside the bunker with Sam.

In the center of the mall, a giant Christmas tree twinkles, illuminating the bland surroundings with multicolored lights. Santa's workshop is spread out in the giant space, complete with a wooden cabinet with icicles and fluffy, but fake, snow. A giant red chair is in the middle of this set up with cameras set up all around it. Santa himself sits, smiling, holding a screaming child on his lap. As the camera flashes, Sam finds himself stopping to take in the scene.

Growing up, Sam believed in Santa Claus. He wanted to believe in something magical, something so pure and so filled with hope. But as he was forced to grow up much too fast, John broke the news.

Santa wasn't real. But you know what was? Monsters, horrible creatures that went bump in the night. Demons that tricked innocent people, that killed those close to you. See, what Sam had figured out over the years is that the good things, the happy things that people believed in—those were all fake. The nightmares on the other hand, those were always real.

Santa beams as he passes the now calm child back to its mother and then, for a brief second, he meets Sam's gaze.

And he winks.

Stunned, Sam forces himself to keep walking.

He's got a list full of presents to get after all.

* * *

About an hour later, Sam has acquired most of the gifts on his list. A new winter coat, new jeans and boots, and at a secondhand music shop, some cassettes for the Impala. He's pretty pleased with his haul actually, and when he gets the peppermint chocolate pie at the bakery down road, Dean will be thrilled.

His fever has spiked though and he, of course, forgot his medicine back the bunker—Dean will kill him for that one—and as the mall starts to blur around him, he forces himself to take a seat down at an empty bench by Santa's village. People rush past—children screaming as they grasp at toys, teenagers texting furiously, women and men running to different stores—but Sam can't really focus on anything. He feels lightheaded and he tries to control his breathing, remembering how Dean coached him to take deep and steady breaths.

It occurs to him, sitting there, watching the world pass by, that this might be his last Christmas. He doesn't want to believe that, of course, but realistically, Sam knows there will be a price for completing these Trials, one that he will pay. Shutting the Gates of Hell—that's something that must be achieved, no matter the cost. Who knows, he smiles as he watches the people, maybe because of him, these people will be able to shop for many more Christmases to come.

"Mind if I sit here?" A jolly voice asks and Sam glances up to meet twinkling blue eyes.

"Santa?" Sam can't help but chuckle a bit as the man in the red suit takes a seat next to him, "Don't you have more kids?"

"I'm on a break," Santa replies, "Had to go check up on my reindeer."

Sam nods, "Ah, right."

"You look ill, young man," Santa observes and places a gloved hand on Sam's shoulder, "Are you doing all right?"

"Just a cold." Sam lies.

Santa tsks, "Come now, Sam, I've never thought you'd lie to me."

"I'm not lying—" Sam starts, but then freezes. His brain is running a bit behind thanks to the fever, but he distinctly heard Santa say his name. Which should be impossible since he never gave his name. Immediately, he jumps up, but the dizziness rushes in and he sways.

"Easy, Sam," Santa soothes, helping him sit back down. The older man rubs circles on Sam's back, which magically seem to increase airflow, "There. That's better."

"How do you know who I am?" Sam growls, unhappy that he can't defend himself, mad that he's even in this compromised state.

"I'm Santa."

"Right. And I'm a millionaire."

Santa rolls his eyes, which is something that he didn't think the jolly man could do, "Sam, you've faced down the Devil himself. You don't think there's a possibility that I might be real too?"

"Prove it."

Santa waves his hand and a small snowflake dances around him. It sparkles in the light and Sam can't help but feel mesmerized by it, almost like he's a child again. With another wave, the snowflake vanishes and Santa meets his gaze, "Well?"

Sam has so many questions that he wants answers to. Why did Santa never come? Why didn't Dean ever get presents? Were they bad children?

"Hey," Santa beams and it's the most reassuring smile that Sam has seen in months, "It's not your fault, Sam. Not Dean's either. I know you both believed. I know you were both good."

Sam shakes his head, the denial bubbling up, "Then why—?"

"Your father is a hunter," Santa states frankly, "And while I'm older than all of that and he wouldn't have hurt me, he could've detained me. That's something I can't risk, not with my schedule."

It makes sense, even though Sam wants to shout about the unfairness of it all. He could picture John taking a shotgun and trying to kill Santa. He laughs actually, at the absurdity of it all and soon Santa is chuckling along with him.

"I just . . ." Sam shrugs, "This is insane."

"Perhaps," Santa states, standing up, "Well, I have to get back to the children. I try to visit a few of the malls all over the world, but today will be my last day."

"They have no idea you're real, do they?" Sam remarks.

"The children know," Santa grins, "That's what matters."

"Yeah."

"Oh, and this is for your brother," A green package materializes from seemingly nowhere in Santa's gloved hands, "You kind of make him look like an elf, don't you?" He laughs once more, the noise echoing all throughout the mall.

"Thank you," Sam manages to say, swallowing against the lump of emotion in his throat. Meeting the older man's gaze, he whispers, "Really."

"Well, this one is for you," Santa hands him one more packages, a tiny blue one this time. Wagging his finger he adds, "But don't open it until Christmas! And I'll know, Sam."

The youngest Winchester laughs, "Right."

"Merry Christmas, Sam."

"Merry Christmas, Santa."

* * *

When he returns back to the bunker, he endures an hour-long lecture from his big brother about how reckless and stupid he was for not taking his medicine on time.

"Do you even know what could've happened if you passed out in the mall? I mean, how would I even know where you were, Sam?" Dean snaps, frustration evident on his face.

"Dean—" Sam tries to keep calm, to understand that this anger is coming from a place of concern.

"And all for some stupid Christmas presents? Sam, I could've—"

"Dean," Sam pulls out the small green Christmas present, beaming, "Here."

Dean takes it, eyeing it oddly, "This wrapped in real paper. Who is it—?"

"Santa." Sam grins.

"Santa?"

"Santa."

"Like . . . big jolly guy in the red suit?"

"Yes."

Even though Dean thinks he said that because of the fever, his older brother still laughs. It's the first time he's done so in months. And really, that's worth everything.

"Okay," Dean chuckles, "Let's get you your medicine."

It may be Sam's last Christmas, but he will damn well make sure it's their best one.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I really loved this chapter. I feel like Santa would've been an important figure to Sam growing up, one that could symbolize his crushed dreams of having a normal childhood. Anyways, I will be posting regularly again now that I'm all settled and catching up over the coming days. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	15. Trust

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **Hyb108**_ _who requested, "Sam shuts down. Can be any season, any circumstances, though I would like it if the cause is Dean or John's fault somehow." Thank you so much for this prompt! The holidays can be overwhelming for a lot of people, myself included. I hope this chapter will be a comfort to those who are dealing with the "Christmas Blues". Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _Where are you Christmas?_

 _Do you remember_

 _The one you used to know?_

 _I'm not the same one_

 _See what the time's done_

 _Is that why you have let me go?_

— _Faith Hill, "Where Are You Christmas?"_

* * *

At seven years old, Sam believes in the magic of Christmas. Sure, he doesn't have the picture perfect tree or the beautifully wrapped presents like his classmates do, but he has faith. He knows Santa will find him and his brother, no matter how many houses they move into or leave behind them. He's mailed his letter off to Santa and he's been on extra good behavior.

Christmas should be an exciting time.

Instead, his father sits him down at the dining room table, a grim expression on his face and gravely informs him, "Sammy, Santa Claus isn't coming. He isn't real."

And that is how the magic of Christmas is crushed for Sam Winchester.

* * *

At thirteen years old, Sam throws himself into being the best researcher he can. He doesn't excel doing exercises as much as his big brother, so instead the youngest Winchester lets himself dive into books of lore and translates Latin into English for his brother and father.

Even around Christmastime, a hunter's work is never done. Not that they celebrate Christmas—John usually locks himself in his room that day, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniel's—but Dean still manages to smuggle Sam a few packages wrapped in newspaper under their makeshift tree. It's a nice gesture, but it's so hard to accept it. At school, his classmates are all discussing old Christmas specials on TV, who is having parties, who has the best lights—the list goes on and on.

What really stings, if Sam is honest with himself, is when the other kids talk about their families. Grandmas who fly all the way in from Florida, Uncles driving down from Michigan, random cousins who just seem to pop out of the woodwork—Sam doesn't have much family. He has John and he has Dean. That's it. If he were to lose both of them . . .

Thinking about that gives him nightmares.

So Sam researches and flips the channel whenever a smiling family and their perfectly decorated house fills the screen. He'll never have that. He knows that now. His life has already been determined. He'll be a hunter and one day, some ghost or demon will get lucky and then Sam will be gone.

No one will even remember him once Dean and John are gone.

Thinking about that terrifies him. The fear threatens to paralyze him so he does what his father taught him and stops feeling. He takes those feelings, shoves them into a box and stuffs them all the way in the back of his mind.

If he can't handle Christmas then he'll just ignore it.

* * *

"Sammy, c'mon, man it's not that big of a deal." Dean's voice is placating but for once, it won't win him over.

"Don't." Sam growls, the fury still rolling off him. His fists are clenched, his jaw aches—it's been a few months since he got this angry. But, then again, why shouldn't he be pissed off? He's sixteen and Lydia Hale invited him to her Christmas Eve party. Sam liked this girl—her beautiful blue eyes, her peach lips and the way she blushed whenever he talked to her in English—and he figured that he might actually get a kiss from her under the mistletoe.

Leave it to John to ruin those plans.

"Sam," Dean's voice is sharper now, more like a soldier and it figures, since John trained them both so well, "Dad has a lead."

"Dad always has a lead." He doesn't want to give in for once. When can Sam finally get his moment to just be normal?

"You can't be selfish." Dean insists.

"Selfish?" Sam echoes, astonished. He shakes his head, "Dean, it's one night! It's one party! I just want to go and be—"

A dark expression flashes in his brother's eyes before he schools it away. When he speaks, it's with a current of resentment underneath the words, "Normal."

"Yes."

Silence.

"Dad says we're leaving so we're leaving. There will be other parties."

"Dean—"

His older brother sighs raggedly, "Just drop it, Sam!"

Sam forces himself to nod, but inside his heart is breaking. Christmas . . . for him, Christmas really is nothing but a time for him to remember all that he'll never have.

He'll never be free, he realizes that now.

And outside, the snow begins to fall.

* * *

His first Christmas at Stanford is spent huddled up in a pile of blankets in winter housing. He's alone, tired, worried and lonely. He's thought of calling his brother a thousand times only to chicken out and put down the phone.

He's pretty much an orphan now.

But, you know what? At least he's normal.

That will just have to be worth it.

* * *

"Sam, c'mon!" Jess' voice rings throughout the apartment and as he quickly adjusts his tie, he can't believe his reflection in the mirror.

He's in a suit and tie about to go out for a very fancy Christmas Eve dinner with Jess' parents. It amazes him how incredibly normal that is. He's nervous, even though he knows Jess' parents love him—they told her that after all—but tonight is going to be a big night.

It's so normal.

That blows his mind.

"Babe," Jess enters the bedroom, stunning in a classy cream cocktail dress, and presses a kiss on his cheek. She rests her head on his shoulder and beams, "Looking handsome, stud."

He chuckles, ducking his head in embarrassment, "Next to you, I'm just—"

"Perfect," Jess tells him, her expression sobering, "You are perfect, Sam."

He kisses her then, savoring this moment between them. After arriving at Stanford, he'd been so lonely. Now, with Jess by his side, he finally feels like he might make something of himself.

He'll be normal.

"C'mon," Jess grins, holding his hand, "Let's go."

Sam just beams and lets her lead him out the door.

* * *

The Christmas after Jess dies, Sam just lets himself go numb. He opens the presents Dean gets for him, but if you asked him what they were, he wouldn't be able to tell you.

That day, he's just on autopilot.

* * *

The first Christmas after their father dies, they're at Bobby's. Sam can't let himself dwell on his own grief though because Dean is lost and he needs a port in this storm. So, Sam takes care of him, guides him throughout the day and that night, with Dean safely tucked upstairs, sleeping peacefully, he finally lifts the lid on the box of emotions he tucked away.

Grief. Hurt. Loss. Anger.

He slams the lid on the box.

"Sam?" Bobby stands in the doorway, his careful gaze trained on the youngest Winchester's face, "You okay?"

He's not, truthfully, but it's not about him.

"Fine." He lies.

When it comes to Christmas, he's always been lying.

* * *

There's only so many times you can be beaten down before you don't want to get back up again. For Sam, this moment comes early during the Apocalypse, after a heated argument—a stupid one that started out with them debating on which Christmas special to watch. Yet it ended with Dean shouting, "I don't trust you, okay? You've always been the weaker one, Sam! You'll say yes!"

Sam, for once, is speechless.

His brother—his devoted, caring, always has his back, big brother—suddenly doesn't believe in him anymore? Of course, Sam can admit his fault. He screwed up, made a lot of bad mistakes, but he wasn't planning on making anymore now. He wanted to atone for his sins, but if Dean didn't believe in him . . . well, what is the point of fighting anymore?

Sam chooses to stay silent.

Hours pass. Eventually, Christmas Eve turns to Christmas morning, but Sam can't sleep. Santa doesn't come—he never did, not even back then—and at about three AM, the youngest Winchester gets up, throws on a sweatshirt and pants and heads outside.

It's a picture perfect Christmas morning with snow softly falling. No doubt in a few hours there would be tons of happy children throwing snowballs at each other and comparing gifts.

And Sam had doomed them all to Hell on Earth.

As he sits out in the snow, he doesn't even feel his legs go numb. The freezing wind does nothing more than ruffle his hair. He feels like an outsider, like he's living life at a distance. He's disconnected from it all, really.

Watching the sunrise brings him nothing but dread.

"Jesus, Sam, there you are!" Dean finds him, because that's what Dean does. His older brother makes a fuss over the snow, over the fact that his limbs are like ice, but Sam just lets him pull him along.

Maybe he's finally broken.

"Sam, I'm sorry."

Sam just meets Dean's gaze before turning his head back to the TV.

"Sam?"

His behavior is worrying his brother, he knows, but honestly, Sam is just tired. He has three heating pads on him, but he can't feel them. There's a weariness in his bones and he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and let himself fall into the abyss.

"Sammy, hey." Dean comes to sit on the edge of Sam's bed now and holds one of his hands within his own. He's afraid now, Sam can see that in his eyes. See, that's just something else the youngest Winchester needs to add on his list of screw-ups.

"Sam, talk to me."

But his tongue is lead and he's tired. So he just lies back and lets his eyes close.

Hopefully Christmas will be over by the time he wakes up.

Of course, things never go that easily, not for him.

* * *

When he wakes up, it's still Christmas and his body still feels like it's weighed down with bricks. Turning his head takes momentous energy, but when he finally lets his gaze drift, he sees Dean staring back at him.

"Hey, Sammy." His voice is soft, calming but the dark bags under his eyes tell another story. He's been up worrying.

"Sammy, you still don't feel like talking?"

He would if he could open his mouth, but that would require way too much energy than he has to give now.

"Sam," Dean leans in, eyes flashing bright, "I am sorry. I was out of line."

Sam knows. Deep down, he knows. But that doesn't lessen the guilt he feels or the burden on his shoulders.

"That's okay," Dean holds his hand, squeezes it and something stirs within Sam—a brief lessening of the guilt and the grief. Dean smiles, "I'm here, Sammy."

Sam nods and lets himself go back to sleep.

* * *

When he wakes up next, the sun is coming back up.

Christmas is over at last.

As he pushes off the blankets and sits up, he sees a small, wrapped package on the nightstand. Brows furrowing, he picks up the package and turns it over in his hands, trying to figure out what it is.

"Open it."

Dean's seemingly materializes from nowhere but Sam isn't gazed. His brother is like Batman in that regard, much to the youngest Winchester's amusement.

Carefully, he unwraps the gift, savoring the one experience he never really had in his childhood. Inside the package is a leather bound book of Shakespeare's plays. It's a well made, and obviously expensive, book. But the fact that Dean went out of his way to buy this—

The box of emotions carefully stored away explodes, the lid flying off the hinges. As the emotions overwhelm him, he finds himself clutching the book and crying.

"M'sorry!" Sam manages to gasp through the sobs, clinging to the book and all it represents.

Dean's arms encircle him, shielding him as always.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean soothes, voice low and soft, "It's okay."

Sam just lets himself cry.

So maybe Christmas will never be what Sam envisioned it.

He'll never have the giant tree with the perfect decorations or the huge family dinners. He'll never be normal.

But he has Dean.

And for now, that's more than enough.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I hope you all enjoyed! This chapter had me pulled in so many directions and honestly I could've written so much more! I really love what I came up with. I hope you all do too! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks._


	16. Maternal Instinct

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today's prompt comes from_ _ **IdreamofIvan**_ _who requested, "What about Christmas with Mary? Mary comes back to the bunker to celebrate Christmas (it could be a surprise or something already planned). The boys might be angry at her (or not) but deep inside at least, they are glad. Hopefully, Sam even more than deep inside. Dean might be sulking a little because he holds grudges a little more. Sam gets sick—whatever you feel like but sick, really, really sick and he finds out what it is like to have the love of a mother taking care of you. And of course, Dean will also have to take care of him. You can invite anyone else to the party—unfortunately most of my favorites are dead (almost everybody is dead, right?) but Jody and the girls and Donna could be nice. Cas maybe? I don't know, up to you, Mary and Dean and the most important ones. It would be also awesome if Mary tells them that she is proud of them and that John would be so proud (maybe she read the supernatural books?)" Thank you for this sweet prompt! I really adore it and all the little details in it. I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

" _And when those blue snowflakes start falling_

 _That's when those blue memories start calling_

 _You'll be doin' all right, with your Christmas of white_

 _But I'll have a blue, blue blue blue Christmas."_

— _Elvis Presley, "Blue Christmas"_

* * *

Her reception back at the bunker is not quite as joyous as she imagined. Then again, nothing since she came back to life has been what she's expected. That being said, she still figured that surprising her boys for their first Christmas together would merit something other than mild disdain and indifference. Of course, Mary knows her boys are upset. She did kind of, sort of leave them without so much as a word, but she had her reasons.

Her sons were hardened hunters. Her husband was dead. The world she knew is just a shadow of itself. Reconnecting to life in general has been a challenge, but one that she's been trying to overcome. Yet, walking back through the door and meeting her boys—if she can do that, she can face anything else that may come.

So, she rolls up her sleeves, smiles to herself and forms a plan.

* * *

Surprisingly, it doesn't take her too long to find the dusty boxes of Christmas decorations tucked away. As she pulls out old lights and cleans ornaments to put on a tree that she will soon get. A real tree, just like the ones she used to decorate when Dean was a child.

As the bunker slowly becomes decorated, she starts noticing her sons lingering a bit more. Sure, they speak with her, but it's forced and much too polite. They're angry—she can't blame them—but she wishes they would just shout at her rather than act like nothing is wrong. Still, she won't force them to talk, not yet. She'll let her master plan slowly come into fruition.

Her boys may be men, but they're still her sons.

And one way or another, Mary will fix this.

* * *

"Hey, Mom?"

She's just about to roll out her sugar cookie dough when Sam's soft voice filters in. Placing the rolling pin aside and smiling, she motions for him to come in, "Sam."

Her youngest is awkward around her. He obviously had an image of her in his head, one built up of the perfect mother, the one that he had seen in Hallmark movies, but Mary knows she must be a disappointment to him. How could she ever live up to that fantasy?

She barely knows him. The same could be said of Dean. This life . . . this second chance she's been given. She hasn't truly taken advantage of it. It's been about her pain and her struggle, but what about her boys? The confusion they must feel?

One way or another, she has to fix this.

"You bake?" Sam points to the dough, poking it a bit, his brows furrowed.

Mary chuckles, "Yeah, actually. It's a good stress reliever."

It's clear by the way he meets her gaze that he has no idea what she's saying.

"Come here," She holds up the rolling pin, "Why don't you try it?"

"Oh, me?" Sam starts to back away, clearly intimidated by the thought of doing something so normal. In a way, that breaks her heart, but at the same time, she understands.

"Yes," She tugs him towards her, placing the rolling pin in his hand, "You can do this, Sam."

With her hands overlaid on top of his, she guides him as he rolls out the dough. He's a bit too rough and some of the dough comes out much too thin, but the grin that's on his lips is worth it.

"Can I help?"

"Of course, Sam."

And together, they bake Christmas cookies.

* * *

Dean, of course, is a bit harder to win over than his brother. He's inherited his father's stubborn streak—even as a baby she knew that—and tiptoeing around him, hoping he'll come around is not going to work. There's nothing left but to confront him.

So, she corners him after dinner and sighs when he tries to pivot and walk away. She follows him to his room and stands in the doorway, "Okay, let me have it."

Dean doesn't say anything.

"Dean." She presses, coming to sit next to him on his bed.

"You left." He growls and it breaks her heart to hear the hurt in his tone.

"I know," She murmurs, "I'm sorry."

"I didn't know if you were going to come back or if you were hurt! And I just—you left and I didn't know what I was supposed to do. That maybe you coming back to life was just a fluke." He's on the verge of tears now, his voice cracking and she places a hand on his back, rubbing comforting circles like she used to do when he was three and much too fussy to sleep.

"I'm sorry," She repeats once more, "I shouldn't have done that."

She knows now, how wrong she was to run away. But at the same time, she's glad she took that time for herself, to process everything. Because without that time, who knows what kind of mother she'd be now?

"Just . . . don't go anywhere, okay?"

She nods, "Okay."

And that's how she pieced together her family again.

* * *

So, as the days get closer to Christmas, Mary slowly starts to feel like she could do this. She may be years too late, but she can still be a mother to these boys. She can take care of them and show them unconditional love. Sure, they may not have turned out the way she'd hoped they be, but she loves them all the same. And to show the boys that they can have some semblance of normalcy, she plans a Christmas party. She sends some invitations off to Jody and the girls and tells Cas about it when he drops by unannounced—which is pretty frequently in case you were wondering—and busies herself with baking while she sends her boys to get a tree.

When they come back, Sam is sniffling. He dismisses it as nothing, but there's a tingle in the base of her neck, a sense that something is wrong. Her gaze carefully scans her youngest son, but as there's no telltale flush of fever in his cheeks and he's not coughing, she has no choice but to file it away.

She'll keep an eye on him for now.

* * *

But, as she soon finds out, her mother's intuition is still quite functional.

That sniffling is still there, but a cough has now developed, one that is wet and deep, rattling his tall frame. His cheeks are flushed, his hair clinging to his brow.

"Sam?" She catches him off guard and as he faces her, she can see the illness evident in his body.

"Mom."

She sighs, rolling up her sleeves because she knows this is going to be a long day, "Sit down. Let me take your temperature."

Sam's eyes widen, "Mom, I—"

She sharpens her tone, "Sit down."

Sam reluctantly sits down at the counter and Mary fishes out the thermometer in the first aid kit before handing it to her youngest son. He dutifully places it under his tongue and they wait for the beep. Once it beeps, Mary waits for Sam to hand it over to her and she sighs.

"Mom, it's—"

"You have a fever," She murmurs, "102." She rubs his hair, smiling softly, "You're sick, kiddo."

It's funny for her to be a mom again. Sam is a man now—hardened by traumas she never was around to help him through—but she still feels like she can make a difference now. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she squeezes him, offering reassurance.

"I'm really not that bad." He's lying through his teeth. The cough that wracks his body a moment later proves it.

"Get to bed," She tells him softly, mentally preparing a list in her head of what she needs to get at the grocery store to make her chicken noodle soup, "And sleep. I'll get you something to eat."

"You don't have to—"

"It's fine," She grins, "Besides, that's what I'm here for, right?"

Sam is stunned, but slowly he nods.

And then a moment later, he heads to his room and Mary gets to work.

* * *

But, of course, Dean gets there first. She supposes she should've expected this. After all, from what she understands, Dean has been the primary caregiver for Sam ever since he was a child. John, much to her dismay, hadn't been the best father. Her death . . . it truly had broken their family. She feels guilt over it constantly, but focusing on the tasks in the here and now helps keep it at bay. What happened after she died, she couldn't control that. Being here and taking care of her boys, now that she could do.

"Making soup?" Mary questions her eldest as she places her groceries on the counter.

"Uh, yeah," Dean stirs the boiling liquid, "Dad's cure-all."

She tilts her head to the side, confusion evident, "Your dad cooked?"

Dean huffs out a chuckle, "Not really, but he swore that this soup could cure anything. It works pretty well. I made it a lot when Sammy was sick during the Trials."

Mary nods, "Right. I read about it."

Dean freezes, "You . . . what?"

She grins, unloading her vegetables and chicken into the fridge, "I read those books. Well, I read pdf copies online. That's first thing I did . . . well, once Castiel told me about them."

Dean's gaze narrows, "Oh, did he?"

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you and Sam. What you two have been through . . . it's more than anyone should have to bear," She beams proudly, "Yet you two keep going. I'm proud of both of you."

Dean just gapes.

* * *

"Here," She lays a damp cloth across Sam's burning forehead, "That better?" There's nothing much she can do for her sick son. He's taken all the medicine he could without causing an overdose and the fever is still raging. Honestly, if it doesn't break by morning, she's strongly considering taking him to the nearest E.R. Thankfully, Sam is coherent and alert, but in pain.

"Yeah." Sam whispers, his voice raw.

Mary hums softly under her breath as she moves a few strands of hair out of Sam's face. It's an old lullaby, one that she used to sing to Dean to get him to sleep. The words are long forgotten to her, but the melody remained.

"Mom?" Sam's hand catches hers, holding it tightly.

"Sam?"

"I missed you." He confesses quietly.

She honestly doesn't know what to say to that. Her youngest son grew up without her and now, they're slowly getting to know one another. So many milestones passed, so many moments gone, but now, she at least has a chance.

She can finally be the mother he so sorely needed.

"I missed you too, Sam."

With that, she presses a kiss to his forehead and begins to hum once more.

* * *

On Christmas Eve, Sam's fever breaks and by Christmas morning, her youngest son is much better. The party has been postponed due to his illness, but Mary is looking forward to hosting Jody and the girls along with Castiel, but she'd be in denial if she didn't admit that she's secretly happy to have her boys to herself.

There's no presents under their tree—Sam was much too sick for either one of them to go out to get some—and they're having chicken noodle soup for dinner, but seated on the couch with her sons, there's no place she'd rather be.

"John would be proud," She whispers softly, but immediately, both of her sons' gazes are locked onto her face, "Really. I know he wasn't the best father, but he was proud of you." She doesn't need the Supernatural books to tell her that. She may not know the man her husband turned out to be, but the man she married? The one who held their sons in the hospital and beamed at being a father?

Well, that man would be damn proud of his sons.

And you know what? She is too.

"Merry Christmas, Mom." Sam mutters, grinning.

She takes a bite of her soup, "Merry Christmas, Sam."

It's not the perfect Christmas, maybe not by society's standards, but for Mary Winchester, it's the best Christmas she's ever had.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I really loved this prompt! Writing Mary is such an interesting challenge for me. I really enjoy getting to explore her character. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	17. Once More

_**Author's Note:**_ _Today I'm finally catching up. Between today and tomorrow, I will be posting very frequently. Here's our first prompt. It comes from_ _ **mckydstarlight**_ _who requested, "You definitely have to do another one with Charlie. I think the boys going to visit her and going to some sort of LARP feast or festival. Maybe Sam gets lost in the woods while he's there." Yes, Charlie! Aside from writing the boys, I adore writing Charlie. Thank you so much for this prompt! Set post "LARP and the Real Girl" but before the Trials. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _Here we are as in olden days,_ _  
_

 _Happy golden days of yore,_

 _Faithful friends who are dear to us,_

 _Gather near to us once more."_

 _Frank Sinatra, "Have Yourself A Merry Christmas"_

* * *

"Sup bitches!" Charlie's voice echoes around the bunker. A few seconds later, the redhead descends down the stairs, beaming and with two invitations clutched in her hand.

"Your Majesty!" Dean laughs, pulling her into a tight embrace.

"Hey there," She grins, returning the hug. Then, facing Sam, she winks, "Missed me, Sam?"

As soon as Dean releases her, Sam hugs her next, laughing, "You know it."

It's true though. Charlie brings a certain lightness to their life. With her rapid-fire pop culture references and animated way of talking, her passion for everything and anything brings the two Winchesters great joy. She's like the little sister they never wanted but somehow needed. Sure, they'd come barreling into her life, ruining her cover, forcing her to leave, but when they found her once again, they found themselves being drawn together. It was like what Bobby had told them so many years ago, family didn't end with blood.

"What's the occasion?" Dean finally asks when they sit down at the table in the library.

With a mischievous grin, the redhead slides over the two invitations. Clasping her hands together, she exclaims, "We're having a winter ball. And you two have to come!"

"Winter ball?" Dean echoes, brow somewhat furrowed.

"Yes," Charlie answers, beaming, "There will be lots of food and dancing and—"

"Dancing?" Dean now looks horrified.

Sam interjects, "Charlie, I'm not sure—"

Charlie pouts, "Please come! It will be fun, I promise." And then she unleashes her own puppy dog eyes, which Dean swears she learned from Sam, but the youngest Winchester thinks she just knows how to play them all too well. As they've grown closer, Charlie has gotten them to do all sorts of things they would've never considered before—LARP-ing, having a PJ movie night—really, the list could go on and on. So, Sam knows that even now, they won't be able to refuse her.

They couldn't, even if they wanted to.

Because Charlie is family.

"Okay," Sam sighs, though he's really just playing it up for dramatic effect, "We'll go."

"Just don't make me dance." Dean grouses.

Charlie just laughs.

* * *

"Would you just hold still?" Charlie snaps, tugging down on the vest that Dean's wearing. The Queen of Moondoor is dressed beautifully, with a gown of navy blue covered by a cream white overcoat, the bodice secured with lacy strings in the back. A tiara rests on her head, the red hair pinned elegantly up in a tight bun.

"I am." Dean whines, very much like a child. He and his brother are dressed somewhat formally as well, with leather pants and black vests over white shirts. Swords hang from their hips and soon, Dean is finally ready.

"Okay," Charlie grins, grabbing one of Dean's hands in her own and then offering her free hand to Sam, "Let's go."

Together, they emerge from the Queen's tent and head towards the party on the other side of the woods.

* * *

But it's in the woods where things go wrong.

One second, he's holding Charlie's hand, listening to the young woman and his brother banter and the next, he's alone, standing in the middle of fog filled glade.

"Charlie?" He calls, unsure as to how long he's been alone. He just had them and then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone. How could he have lost them? "Dean?"

The only reply is the wind hissing through the bare trees. It cuts through his thin clothing, the freezing air chilling his bones. He can't just stay here. He has to keep moving and find his way out of the forest. But this glade is unfamiliar to him and turning back could lead him in circles. He has no choice but to go forward and hope he'll find his brother and Charlie soon.

* * *

"Charlie? Dean?" His legs ache. He feels like he's been walking for hours. The forest remains the same, though the fog grows thicker and clings to the ground, so much so that if he were to look down he cannot see his own feet. His body is frozen, his lungs feel locked in his chest. He can scarcely recall how he got here. In fact, part of him simply wants to rest against a tree until the sun come out and he's warm once more.

"You giving up, son?" He stops as soon as he hears the familiar timbre of that voice. Turning around, he lets his gaze rest on the old family friend.

"Bobby?" His voice is hoarse; his eyes are wide as he takes in the gruff hunter's appearance.

"You look like crap, Sam." Bobby says with a slight chuckle. He comes forward and pulls the youngest Winchester into a tight hug.

"You're dead."

"I know."

And yet, here he is, hugging Sam like no time in the world has passed.

When they break apart, the older hunter takes a few steps past Sam and motions for him to follow. When Sam does not, he sighs, "Sam. Look, trust me."

"You're dead." Sam repeats once more, "But you're here. How—?"

"The woods," Bobby states softly, "These woods are a gateway. But Sam, it doesn't matter. You don't belong here. Let's go."

And then they begin to walk.

"Bobby."

"You have to keep walking, Sam."

"Bobby, I need to tell you—"

"Sam—"

Sam stops in the middle of the path. These words, he's kept them bottled up for so long. If he doesn't say them now, they'll consume him.

"Bobby, I'm sorry."

He never got the chance to say that before Bobby died. It's the one of the many regrets that keeps him up at night. Still, if this is really happening and if Bobby is really here, Sam would be a fool not to say anything.

Bobby just smiles, "I know, Sam. I know."

And they keep walking.

* * *

Eventually, the fog vanishes and with it, Bobby does so as well.

"Sam!" Dean's voice echoes in the distance and immediately, Sam quickens his pace.

"Sam! Can you hear us?" Charlie calls urgently.

"I'm here!" Sam shouts, trying to get his voice to carry above the hissing wind.

"Sammy!" Dean is there suddenly, his arms wrapping around Sam's body and crushing him with the force.

"Oh thank God," Charlie mumbles, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears as he too hugs the youngest Winchester, "We thought we lost you!"

"I'm okay." Sam assures the both of them, but his violently shaking body indicates otherwise. Still, the cold seems to have dissipated and now that he's with his brother and Charlie, he knows he'll be okay.

"You just vanished, Sam." Dean mutters.

"Yeah, like poof, you were gone," Charlie adds, emphasizing, "And we couldn't find you."

"How'd you get back?"

"Bobby," Sam replies softly, "Bobby came and got me."

Dean doesn't say anything for a few seconds, the shock evident on his face. Then, "Bobby did?"

"Yeah."

"Bobby?" Charlie echoes, the name unfamiliar on her tongue.

"He was there," Sam insists quietly, "He found me."

Dean places a hand on Sam's back and begins to guide them all towards the music playing in the distance, "I'm sure he did."

* * *

Later that night, as they're driving back towards the bunker, listening to Christmas songs, Sam faces his brother and states, "I told Bobby I was sorry."

They haven't really discussed what happened in the woods. They allowed themselves to get caught up in the fun of the party, choosing to put aside the scary incident in order to enjoy the night. But now, in the safe confines of the Impala, it's time to confess what happened in the woods.

"You did?"

"Yeah. He said, he knew."

Dean just nods, "He always did, Sam."

And they drive on.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _This didn't turn out even remotely the way I had planned it to, but sometimes being surprised while writing is better. I hope you all enjoyed. More chapters will be coming soon today. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	18. (Never) Alone

_**Author's Note:**_ _Merry Christmas Eve! Our next prompt comes from_ _ **goldfishie1**_ _who requested, "How about Sam is already sick and gets a migraine on Christmas? Dean, as always, takes care of his Sammy." Awww, this one is so sweet! Thank you so much for this prompt! Please enjoy. Let's set this in season 1._

* * *

" _Should auld acquaintance be forgot_

 _And never brought to mind?_

 _Should auld acquaintance be forgot_

 _In days of auld lang syne?"_

— _Relient K, "Auld Lang Syne"_

* * *

Being sick on Christmas sucks.

Of course, being ill on any day is awful, but there's something about listening to cheery Christmas songs and seeing snowflakes fall outside the window of the their motel room that highlights just how crappy Sam feels. As he lies on the rough sheets, tossing and turning from the fever and the aches in his bones, Sam sighs. Dean has gone out to fetch more medicine as well as some food, leaving the youngest Winchester to his own devices.

On the TV, the stop motion figures of Snow Miser and his minions, dance around, the cotton balls of snow falling around them. Snow Miser smirks, "I'm Mister White Christmas, I'm Mister Snow!" He twirls around the ice palace, singing loudly, "Friends call me Snow Miser, whatever I touch turns to snow in my clutch!"

Sam coughs, "I'm too much." He completes as he flips the channel, finding yet another Christmas special.

Groaning, he just shuts off the TV, and tosses the sheets off of him. Getting up, he waits a few seconds to let the spinning world around him still. When he's confident that he will not collapse, he walks towards the door. Opening it, he sticks his head outside, relishing the feel of the cold air. A snowflake touches his cheek, melting instantly. Christmas snow . . . it's supposed to be magical, but right now, it's doing wonders on his flaming skin.

"Sam." Of course, Dean chooses that moment to appear and judging from the scowl on his face, he's not pleased by Sam's decision to escape the warm cocoon of the room.

"It's hot." Sam whines.

Dean isn't fazed. Shifting the bags of groceries to one arm, he uses his free hand to push his brother back inside, "C'mon. You're sick."

As the motel room door closes behind them, Sam feels trapped once again.

God, he hates being sick.

* * *

His first Christmas with Jess, he spent by her bedside in the hospital.

"I'm so sorry," She sobbed, her eyes red and puffy as her clammy hand held his, "I ruined everything."

"Jess, no," He soothed her, pushing some her golden hair out of her face, "It's not your fault."

She'd been sick for a while, but Sam hadn't been concerned. A cough here, a sneeze there. It was when she got the fever that wouldn't break that he became concerned and when he returned to their apartment to find her collapsed by the tiny Christmas tree they had decorated together, he panicked as he called the ambulance.

The important thing was that she was fine. She just got a severe case of the flu, but it would mean that she would be in the hospital getting meds for the next few days. Their plans to fly out to her father's cabin and spend Christmas in the snow would not be happening.

"I just," Jess sniffed, "I wanted to make this special for you."

Sam just smiled and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"It is special," He assured her, "Now, relax."

It ranked as one of the worst Christmases he had ever had, but somehow, he didn't mind. Because he loved Jess and as long as she was by his side, he could handle being apart from his family.

She was his family now.

* * *

And then she was gone, up in flames.

* * *

Of course, because his life can't ever be simple, he gets a migraine on top of everything else. He had ignored the warning signs—the stiff neck, the way he saw zigzag lines in the light—and now, he had crossed from that phase to the pain phase. He'd been stupid, chalking up his symptoms to the cold and foolishly hoping it would just all go away.

It did not.

His head throbs and even turning his neck results in crippling nausea as the world spins around him. Part of him wishes he could just curl up into a ball and fade away. The other part desperately wishes for sleep.

The lights are all off as is the TV. It's like a cave in this room and he feels bad his brother is essentially trapped with him on Christmas. Still, Dean hasn't said so much as a word, choosing instead to change the cool clothes on Sam's burning forehead and check medicine dosages.

"You can go," Sam finally manages to say, "You know, out. I'll be fine—"

Dean just huffs out a chuckle, "It's fine."

Still, Sam knows how much Dean had wanted to go out to the bar downtown and flirt with the girls and drink beers. Sam shouldn't deny him that. Trying to sit up, he adds, "Really, Dean."

Dean's brow furrows, "Why are you trying to get rid of me?"

Sam's eyes widen, "I'm not."

"Good. Cause I'm staying."

"Fine." Sam slumps back against the pillow, wincing at the pain the fluffy pillow causes.

They sit there in silence for a bit before Dean comes to sit at the edge of the bed, a few pills in his hand and a glass of water in the other. Silently, Sam takes the medicine.

Dean's always been like this—willing to put himself aside to care for his brother. Even now, with their father missing and four years of silence between them, this is still his brother's default setting.

"Thanks."

He's lucky to have such an attentive brother. Really, that's what he missed most at Stanford. Jess helped fill the void but his heart never fully healed. He'd see something that would remind him of Dean or do something he'd want to tell Dean, only to realize that he couldn't.

The grief almost broke him.

But, Dean is here now. He and Sam would bridge the gap and become close once more. And sure, maybe this Christmas is ruined, but there would be next year.

"You're welcome, Sammy."

And as Sam drifts off to sleep, he smiles.

Because Dean will keep him safe.

That's what he always does, after all.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _It felt nice to have a change of pace! I really love writing about the smaller moments as well as the epic stories. I hope you enjoyed this! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	19. Snow

_**Author's Note:**_ _Our next chapter comes from_ _ **Lady Daera**_ _who asked for, "Sam didn't know where he was or where Dean was but he didn't care in the moment. It was just too fascinating to see his blood fall in the snow and watch how it slowly painted the white snow red." I loved this! Thanks for submitting it and leaving it so open for interpretation! Let's set this in the second half of season six. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _It's Christmas time_

 _So open up the flood gates_

 _Tell me that you'll be late_

 _And rip me apart."_

— _Colbie Caillat, "Mistletoe"_

* * *

Snow.

Flakes dancing around in the wind, swirling around him, like sugar plum fairies that he used to dream about as a child, back before he knew the truth. Christmas used to be magical, a haven for normalcy and dreams of what life could be. A white picket fence protecting a house filled with love and laughter. A Christmas tree as high as the ceiling would be in the living room and he'd come home to find his wife and children by it, laughing as they put up ornaments.

But it was never meant to be.

Sam Winchester would never be normal. He tried to escape his destiny and all that it had given him was a girlfriend burning on the ceiling and a broken heart. He was destined to be a hunter, forever trapped in this cycle of trying to escape only to be pulled back.

None of that matters though. All he can see now is a winter wonderland, an endless blanket of snow stretched out as far as the eye can see. He's sitting in it, his back resting against a tree as his clothes continue to be dusted in white. He knows, rationally, that he should get up and move. But, he can't recall how he got here and more importantly, he's much too tired to move.

It's peaceful here. Birds chirp though remain unseen. A fox passed by him earlier, the elegant creature meeting his gaze for a brief moment before scampering away. Here there is no monster trying to kill him, no destiny to try and outrun.

It's just him and nature.

Glancing down, he spies the blood slowly turning the snow crimson. He reaches out to touch it, fascinated by how the blood slowly crystalized. His impure blood somehow cleansed by the snow. It fascinated him to watch as the red slowly spread, taking over more and more of the snow. He doesn't even feel pain—he doesn't feel anything really—and though he's alone, he's not afraid.

Dean must be searching for him. At least, Sam thinks he must be. How did he get here? How did he get hurt? He remembered walking in the woods when his head felt like it was on fire and then—

He'd been in Hell.

He'd been burning, screaming his voice raw, crying out for help only for none to come.

But now he's here in the snow. He's safe. He's not there anymore. He made it out.

He shuts his eyes close for a few moment, exhaling a breath as he tries to calm his pounding heart. He's a bit lightheaded and really, he wants to get some sleep. He knows he shouldn't. He should get up and leave.

But really, would a few moments of sleep really cause so much damage?

He promises to only rest for a few minutes.

He falls asleep instead.

* * *

A warm hand touches his cheek as a voice whispers, "Sam?"

The youngest Winchester's eyelids feel like lead, but somehow, he manages to open his eyes to see Castiel, kneeling in the snow, his trench coat fluttering out behind him, almost like a cape.

"Sam, are you with me?" The angel presses, his voice growing more concerned.

Really, he doesn't know the answer to that. His mind is floating, the thoughts flying away as soon as he tries to focus on any one. Still, he knows Castiel well enough to be able to read the angel's expressions and right now, his friend is terrified.

"Sam?" Castiel tries once more, sharpening his tone.

"S'kay," Sam slurs, his words nothing more than a collection of crashing syllables, "M'kay, Cas." He doesn't know if that's true. Judging by the amount of crimson snow that surrounds him and the way he can't feel his legs anymore, he must be in bad shape. The fact that he's not even worried about any of that is an indicator that something has seriously gone wrong.

Maybe he's even past the point of no return.

"Stay with me, Sam," Castiel whispers as he places two fingers to Sam's forehead, "I'm going to get you out of here."

There's a flutter of wings but Sam allows himself to fall into the welcoming dark abyss.

* * *

When he comes to, he's in the hospital, an I.V. attached to his arm and three thick blankets layered over his body. Turning his head, he spies Dean asleep in the chair by his bedside.

"He was worried," Castiel states as he steps into the room, a soft smile on his lips, "But he finally is getting some rest."

"Cas." Sam's voice is much too hoarse and soon, the angel is handing him a glass of water. He takes a sip of the cool liquid, savoring the feel of it on his parched throat.

"How are you feeling, Sam?" Castiel questions, "Do you remember how you got there?"

"I was . . ." His brain is still fuzzy, the memories of what came before the seizure seem lost forever. Sighing, he adds, "I don't know. I had a seizure and I must have fell and hurt myself."

Castiel nods, his voice grave, "You almost bled out."

"But I didn't." Sam feels compelled to state. Smiling, he meets the angel's gaze, "You got there in time."

"Fortunately." The angel dismisses.

They sit there in silence for a few minutes, the steady rhythm of the heart rate monitor the only thing filling the void.

"You should rest." The angel gently orders.

Sam doesn't need much more encouragement. His eyes are already growing heavier and his breathing is evening out. Still, before he allows himself to rest, he calls out, "Hey, Cas?"

His friends pauses in the doorway, "Yes, Sam?"

"Thank you."

And for the first time in a long time, Castiel smiles.

That's enough for Sam.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I haven't done enough Sam and Cas friendship pieces for this collection so I was glad to be able to work something in. I hope you enjoyed! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	20. Broken

_**Author's Note:**_ _Merry Christmas! I hope you all had a wonderful day and I wish you the best in the coming year! I will keep posting until all my prompts are done and I expect to wrap this collection up sometime in the first week of January. Please look forward to the upcoming chapters! Today's chapter comes from_ _ **Leahelisabeth**_ _who requested, "Mary comes back to the bunker for Christmas because she's lonely and wants to give her boys a holiday. She comes back to find out that Sam's been having dissociative spells because of Toni's drugs and he can't figure out how to ground himself. It's caused him to be injured and sometimes delirious. Dean is exhausted and overwhelmed through trying to keep Sam present. Mary decides it is time to try being a mother again." I've gotten so many prompts about Mary finding her role as a mother after being gone for so long and each one has been different and unique. This prompt is no exception. I really enjoy writing these! Thank you so much for the prompt! Please enjoy._ _ **Trigger warning for attempted suicide. If this bothers you, please do not read!**_

* * *

" _I'm just asking for one day_

 _Let's keep making memories_

 _Can we stay whole together, please?_

 _By the Christmas tree."_

— _Colbie Caillat, "Happy Christmas"_

* * *

In the end, the decision to return to the bunker comes naturally to her.

Of course, Mary never could've expected the shock she'd feel. It's not every day that one is brought back to life, but that wasn't the worst of it. Finding her sons grown and traumatized by events that horrified her, inquiring about John only to find out that he was the one who set their boys on this path—a path she never wanted for them—and then, to top it all off, she finds out she's a widower too. It was information overload and she had to step back to gather her thoughts. She had to decide what she wanted to go going forward, where her place was in this new world.

But now, she knows.

No matter what she's lost, she's still a mother. Her family is still her first priority. She may not be able to mother her sons the way she used to, but they're still her sons and if she can be helpful to them, then her place is with them.

And it's almost Christmas. She wanted to decorate a tree together and bake cookies with them. Maybe she could convince Dean and Sam to even sing a few carols with her or at the very least, brave the malls with her to find gifts.

Closing the door behind her, Mary can't help but smile as she hears the faint music of Metallica drifting down from the hall. One of her boys must be playing music from their phones—how weird is that?—and it comforts her to hear that their taste in music isn't too far apart from hers. Maybe they'll find something in common—

"Mom."

Dean is practically hunched over the study table, his face gaunt and his eyes unfocused. His voice is weak and hoarse, like he's been screaming for hours. This isn't the confident man who explained things to her when she first came back to life. No, this is someone who needs help, who needs support, who needs—

Her.

He needs her.

"Dean," Immediately she rushes to his side, placing her hands on his cheeks, shuddering at how cold they are, "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine."

Mary may have been dead awhile, but she can tell he's lying to her by the way he doesn't meet her gaze. Hardening her voice, she presses, "Dean, tell me."

"It's Sam."

Mary should've known. When it comes to Dean, his wellbeing is always second to Sam's. She doesn't know whether that's a bad thing or not—perhaps they depend too much on each other—but as she can't find Sam in the immediate area, the situation must be dire to affect Dean so much.

"What is it?" She asks softly, "Where is he?"

And in a halting voice, Dean tells her all of what has occurred in her absence.

It horrifies her.

* * *

"Sam?"

She finds her youngest son, standing outside in the snow, his eyes locked upwards, staring at the cloudy sky.

He doesn't respond—she didn't expect him to—but he jumps when she accidentally snaps a twig under her boot. He doesn't back away, but there's fear evident in his eyes. He doesn't recognize her, or if he does, he can't quite place her. She's nothing more than a ghost to him, a faded memory that he can't quite recall.

"Sam." She smiles at him, slowing her pace even more, giving him all the room he needs to process. Eventually, she's able to reach out and touch his arm.

"Don't!" He jerks back, almost as if he's been electrocuted.

"Okay," She soothes, "It's okay."

It's not. None of this is okay. But Mary has to pretend it is, pretend like she has everything under control when she does not. She's never encountered something like this before and she'd be a fool to act like she can handle this.

But for Sam, she has to try.

"I don't know . . ." He turns around, taking in the scenery, "Where am I?"

"You're home, Sam," Mary whispers, taking a measured step towards him, "With me. Do you remember me?"

He struggles a moment to place her before finally saying, "You're my . . . mom."

"Right."

"And I'm . . . Sam."

She beams, "You are."

He blinks a few times before the realization fully alights in his eyes. As the memories come thundering back, Mary takes her son's wrist and guides him back inside, allowing him to sit inside.

When he finally meets her gaze, a sad smile is on his lips, "Hey, Mom."

"Hi Sam."

And another episode is over.

* * *

The way Dean explained it to her, the woman who had held Sam hostage had drugged him with something. Whatever it was—while it had left his system—had triggered some underlying trauma in Sam. Maybe it was his coping mechanisms in overdrive—after being in Hell, he must've suffered so much—but the drug had triggered dissociative spells in her youngest son.

Of course, at first Mary had no idea what that meant.

Research on the Internet—how on Earth did that thing find results so fast?—led her to more background on Sam's condition. The long and the short of it was this: Sam couldn't quite ground himself anymore. Some days, he'd lose his memories and not be able to figure out who he was or who anyone around him was. Others, he'd be moving in a fog, remarking on how his life seemed so far away to him, like he was watching a movie rather than living it. The spells could come and go without any warning and so far, Mary hadn't quite narrowed down what triggered them.

But what angered her the most was her own foolishness. She'd left Dean to face this alone and he had exhausted himself, nearly to the brink of collapse. If she hadn't showed up when she did—

She didn't like to think about it.

But, at least, she's here now and she will help.

She has to help.

* * *

Taking care of her boys is soon her number one priority. After Dean pushed himself to the brink of collapse, she sent him to bed and now, a week later, the bags under his eyes are gone and he seems better, more lifelike than he was when she arrived back the bunker.

Sam still struggles, but Mary has been doing research on how best to help him. She's even contacted a few doctors that would be willing to take a look at him, no questions asked. Still, she's not quite ready to bring him to a doctor just yet and risk exposing him to more traumas.

To take her mind off the stress, Mary bakes. Cookies, bread, pies—everything and anything that involves dough and a rolling pin, she makes. It takes her mind off of the stress, of the worry that seems to consume her.

"Mom?"

Dean stands in the doorway of the kitchen, his brow drawn in concern, "More pies?"

"I thought you like pie." She mutters.

"I do," Her son assures her, "But this is the fifth pie today."

"I'll freeze it so we can bake it later."

Dean steps into the kitchen, coming to rest by her at the counter. He watches her roll the dough, intrigued by how she applies just enough force to flatten the dough without making it too thin. It's a delicate balance.

"Sam will be fine." Dean whispers.

Mary hesitates before rolling the dough once more.

"I know," She smiles, "He's a fighter. Both of you are."

She just wishes she could fix this for him.

* * *

"I'm just tired."

Mary has never been more terrified than she is right now. Her youngest son is standing in his room with a gun to his head, dispassionately talking about ending his life because he doesn't feel like he's living it. She wants to scream, wants to charge him and take the gun away, but she doesn't dare move. She can't risk upsetting him and causing him to fire. She has to be patient.

"Sam," Her voice is breaking, "Put the gun down."

"This isn't my life," Sam insists, a bit of passion finally creeping back into his tone, "It's like I'm trapped behind glass, just watching my life go by—"

"I know, Sam," She soothes, taking a step towards him, her arms outstretched, "I know but we'll figure this out. You'll get better. We can see doctors—"

"You don't get it!" Sam growls, waving the gun wildly, "I'm broken! I've been broken since you died. Dad lost it and everything since then . . . I can never be normal. I don't want this to be my life."

Now, she's crying. Dying is easy, she understands now, it's those left behind that truly have the struggle. Her death . . . she hadn't even wondered how that could affect Sam. She just figured he would never remember her, but now she sees, she was a ghost that could never be vanquished.

She was the monster.

"It doesn't have to be," She forces herself to say, daring to step even closer to him, "Sam, I'm sorry for everything. I never knew . . ." She swallows, trying to force away a sob, "If you want to be normal, you can be. Your life doesn't have to be here in this bunker. You can be whatever you want."

It isn't too late for any of them. They could quit the hunting world and leave it all behind. They could settle down somewhere and go legit. Their life could be something like that.

"You're just saying that!"

"No, Sam, I'm not," She insists, "I came back to the bunker because I wanted to spend Christmas with you and Dean. That's normal, isn't it?"

"Christmas?" Sam echoes.

"Yeah. Together. As a family."

He hesitates, the gun slipping lower and lower.

"With me?"

"Of course, Sam." She holds her hand out, "Please, give me the gun."

It seems to take almost an eternity, but Sam eventually gives her the gun. Mary quickly disarms it and puts it aside. Then, throwing her arms out, she embraces her son, both of them crying.

Today marks a new start for both of them.

* * *

They spend Christmas together, eating one of Mary's many pies and watching Christmas specials on the TV. Sam seems present and Dean is ecstatic at that. Mary too finds herself beaming as she sits with her boys and listens to them banter.

This . . . this is where she belongs.

She won't leave them again.

Ever.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I had a blast writing this chapter. I hope you all enjoyed. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	21. Endings

_**Author's Note:**_ _Our next prompt comes from_ _ **samgirl19**_ _who requested, "Pre series. Something bad happens on Christmas and it can be one of the reasons Sam leaves to college. Like a life altering injury." I always love exploring Sam's life before Stanford and his drive for normalcy. Thank you for this prompt! I hope you enjoy! Let's set this when Sam is sixteen._

* * *

" _A silent night_

 _I know it's gonna be_

 _Joy to the world_

 _But it's gonna be sad for me."_

— _The Emotions, "What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas?"_

* * *

Christmas long ago stopped being a magical night for Sam Winchester.

Growing up as a hunter, he learned that in life there were only bad things that went bump in the night. Figures like angels or even Santa Claus did not exist. In their place, demons and ghosts roamed, killing innocent civilians and ruining families. While normal people bustled about, frantically trying to get last minute presents for relatives, Sam sat on the bench by the Macy's store, observing the madness.

He was waiting for the mall to close. Once it did, he would easily elude security and head to the small jewelry store by the food court. He'd break in and then vanquish the ghost that had been haunting the mall for the past two weeks, sending four people to the hospital. She was escalating and she needed to be stopped.

How Sam ended up with it was quite simple. John was out of state, finishing up another hunt with Bobby and Dean had been put in charge with disabling the security cameras. Once that was done, he'd come and meet Sam and provide backup—not that the youngest Winchester would need any. He'd done hunts like these a thousand times before. Tonight wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary.

"Mama, we have to get Daddy that hat!" A five-year-old girl with red ringlets tugged on her mother's sweater urgently.

"Don't worry," Her mother soothed, a somewhat serene smile appearing on her harried expression, "We will. Come on." She offered her hand to her daughter who quickly took it.

"Okay, Mama!" The girl chirped, beaming as the two left.

A bittersweet smile tugged on Sam's lips. Such a normal exchange, but one that was completely foreign to him. He'd gone Christmas shopping, sure, but it mostly consisted of he and Dean stealing what gifts they couldn't afford. Sure, maybe it's the thought that counts, but Sam couldn't help but dread the activity.

As a kid, he used to dream about white Christmases filled with happy faces. A giant tree all decorated with sparkling lights with presents under it, topped with colored ribbons. It was the picture perfect Christmas in his head, but it would never be a reality. As long as he was a hunter, his life would never be the way he hoped it would.

"The mall will be closing in ten minutes. Please finish your shopping and then proceed to the exit."

Sam nodded his head and got up, moving towards one of the dark hallways by the emergency exit of the mall.

"Showtime." Sam muttered, fading into the shadows.

* * *

Later, when he wakes up in the hospital, he'll blame his injury on being blindsided. He'll tell his father and Dean that the ghost got the drop on him and before he knew it, he was flying across the room, colliding with the glass windowpanes.

Later, he'll lie and say he was paying attention, that he didn't let himself get too relaxed.

It's not the truth though.

* * *

The truth is that he let himself fall into a routine. Hunting had become his reluctant life, one that he felt shackled to. It was his path and one that his father or Dean wouldn't let him stray from.

So, when he had entered that store, he didn't fully inspect things as well as he should have. He chanted his incantation lazily, letting the syllables blur into each other, the words becoming mumbled. He'd done a thousand of these types of hunts before. He felt like he had nothing to fear.

John would tell him, that's what gets hunters killed.

Or in his case, that's what causes you to lose part of your leg.

Dean had found him bleeding out in the store. He'd finished the hunt and called for an ambulance. He went into emergency surgery and when he woke up, the doctor—Sam hadn't cared to remember his name—said that the injuries to his leg below his right knee had been too severe.

"I'm afraid we had to amputate it."

Dean had taken the news worse than Sam. His older brother had thrown himself into overdrive, sneaking Sam salads from the deli downtown, getting his favorite books from the library and constantly smiling and talking positively. It could be worse—that's Dean's mentality—and Sam agrees with that. It could've been worse. He could have died.

But . . .

"Sam?" Dean was hovering once more, his eyes drawn in concern, "You okay? You need a nurse?"

Sam shook his head.

What Sam needed was normalcy.

* * *

As soon as he was released from the hospital, he applied to colleges. This life that he was living . . . it wasn't for him. He wouldn't keep walking down this path. If Dean and John had a problem with that, so be it.

But Sam was done sacrificing his happiness to keep his family together.

Maybe that made him selfish and a horrible brother, but for once, Sam wanted to put himself first.

No more hunting.

* * *

And exactly one year later, Sam left for college.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _The muse took me all over the place with this one. It's my first permanent injury fic too so it was a bit of a struggle. I wanted the focus to be on Sam though and his desire for normalcy. I like how it turned out! I hope you did too. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


	22. The Lady in White

_**Author's Note:**_ _Happy New Year! I wish you all the best in 2017! Like I said, this collection will keep going until I finish all of the prompts. I know I've been behind on prompts. My apologies. Next year, I may have to take fewer prompts or start this collection earlier in the year to make sure that I can get through all the prompts. That's a bridge we'll cross when we get to next year though. Anyways, let's have our next prompt! This comes from_ _ **Jeanny**_ _who requested, "How about the boys have to save some kids from an evil pixie pretending to be Elf on the Shelf (or something similar and not trademarked lol)—I'll leave the injuries to your imagination." What a wonderful prompt! Although after writing it, I may never be able to look at Elf on the Shelf in the same way again. Let's set this in season two. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _We are Santa's elves._

 _We've a special job each year._

— _Burl Ives, "We Are Santa's Elves"_

* * *

The young girl can't be more than seven years old, with piercing green eyes that sparkle with a wisdom beyond her years. As Sam stands behind her mother waiting to place an order for coffee and a bagel, the little girl won't avert her gaze. Her mother is much too harried to notice her daughter's behavior—she has a screaming toddler on her arm whom she's trying to hush—but Sam finds himself wondering what exactly the little girl wants.

"Brianna," Her mother finally chides, "Don't stare. It's rude."

Brianna glances away, her lips pouting. Then, before she can meet Sam's gaze again, her mother, who has taken her huge latte, pulls her away and the trio disappear outside of the coffee shop.

"Dude," Dean finally exclaims when Sam returns with their coffee and bagels, "What took you so long?"

"Just a long line."

Brianna's eyes still haunt him though.

* * *

"My Elf on the Shelf is mean."

Brianna, the stubborn seven year old, is once more standing in front of him, this time at the library. She has a few picture books tucked under her arm, but she quickly puts them on the table.

"Uh . . ." Sam glances around, looking for her mom or little brother.

"Listen," Brianna snaps, voice sharp, "My Elf on the Shelf is mean."

Sam struggles to formulate a response to that when her mother soon appears. The woman is still holding the toddler, though the little boy is calm now, smiling a bit as he spies his sister. He reaches out with chubby fingers trying to grab his sister curly red locks.

"Brianna," Her mother calls, the older woman's eyes glancing over Sam, "What did I say about wandering off?" With her free hand, she tugs her daughter towards her. Then, with an apologetic smile, she adds, "I'm sorry. She bothered you this morning too."

"Oh, no," Sam grins, "It's fine. She was just telling me about her Elf on the Shelf?"

The mother rolls her eyes, "Ugh, Christine."

"Christine?" Sam echoes.

"Her name." Brianna supplies.

"She says her Elf is mean?"

Her mother groans, "Yes, that's her new thing now. Brianna swears that Christine has been breaking things and bruising her brother." She lowers her voice, almost conspiratorially, "But Brianna is just in a rebellious phase."

If he were a normal person, he'd be inclined to believe the older woman. Young children do often blame things on imaginary friends. But Sam isn't a normal person. He's an experienced hunter and he knows young children can often perceive things that adults cannot. For children, the line between reality and fantasy is often blurred, something that supernatural creatures take advantage of.

And Brianna, for whatever reason, sought him out.

"Yes," Sam nods. Then, letting his gaze drift to the young girl, he says, "Listen, I think I can help."

And that's when he starts to lie.

* * *

"A children's psychologist?"

"Yes."

"That's what you told the mother?"

"Yes, Dean."

"And now we're going to this girl's house because you think her Elf on the Shelf is possessed?"

"Possessed maybe. But there was just something about this kid. She . . . she needs our help."

Dean just chuckles, "Awesome."

* * *

While Dean chats with Brianna's father, Sam, Brianna and her mother head to where Christine sits upon the bookshelf, a grin on her plastic face. As Brianna rants and raves about how Christine moves around and destroys things, Sam picks up the doll and inspects it. It seems like a plastic doll, harmless really.

But when he holds it up towards Brianna, the little girl shrinks back.

"If it's okay with you," He addresses Brianna's mother, "Could I have a word with her alone?"

"Yeah, sure."

When he can hear Brianna's mother's voice drifting from down the hall, Sam kneels down to face the seven year old.

"Christine is mean." Brianna insists.

"Why do you think that?" Sam questions.

"I saw her move," Brianna snaps, "She has black wings! She's not an elf! She's bad!"

Black wings give Sam more to go on. But seeing the doll itself, he finds no trace that something supernatural has taken over the doll. As far as he can tell, nothing is possessing the doll itself. It didn't react to salt or holy water.

"Brianna—"

"She said I could trust you! That you would help me!"

Sam blinks, "Who?"

"The lady in white," Brianna mutters, glancing away "She looks like the sunshine."

Sam doesn't quite know what to make of that, "Who is—?"

But he doesn't get that far because the next thing he knows, the Elf is suddenly across the room, hissing at him, a pair of black wings on its back.

"See!" Brianna is practically screaming now, tugging on his hand and pointing, "See! Christine is mean!" Tears roll down the little girl's cheeks as she begins to meltdown, sobbing.

"Brianna, it's okay." Sam tries to soothe, but she's past the point of no return. Her mother is soon there, holding her, soothing her and as Dean shoots him a confused glance from the doorway, Sam just nods his head.

They have a case.

* * *

The thing with pixies is that they are notorious for doing what they want when they want for no apparent reason. They're the mischievous cousins of faeries, with no exact hierarchy. There's no leader Sam can appeal to and even if he manages to drive this pixie away, there's no telling whether others are lurking there. They could even be trying to steal Brianna or her brother away, back to their own realm. And after Brianna's meltdown, her mother is on high alert, refusing to let Sam back into the house for fear of her daughter freaking out.

Which gives Sam one other option.

"I don't like this." Dean is gripping the steering wheel a bit too tight. The music is off and the sound of the Impala's engine fills the silence.

"I know."

"Faeries aren't trust worthy, Sam." Dean feels compelled to point out, even though Sam knows this fact.

"Brianna and her family are in danger," Sam mumbles, running his hand through his hair. If there were another option, he would take it. But pixies can't be salted and burned. They're ancient and unless they want to leave, they won't. Unless he went above the pixie's head . . . "I have to do this."

"I should go with you."

"We don't even know if she'll see me."

"Sam—"

"Stop!" Sam interjects quickly as Dean hits the breaks. The car comes to a screeching halt, barely stopping in time to prevent a collision with a hooded figure standing in the middle of the dirt road.

"Shit."

"That's her."

"Sam—"

"Just . . . stay here."

Sam gets out of the car, slowly closing the door behind him. He holds his hand apart, palms upwards so she can see that he isn't armed. It's a song and dance, a formula that he needs to remember. Say what you will about faeries, but they're suckers for traditions.

Faerie queens are no exceptions.

"I greet thee," She pushes off her green hood, her blood red hair spilling outwards until it nearly kisses her back. Her wings are barely visible—she's in a guise now since she's in the mortal realm—but he can see the faint outline of them sparkling in the light. Her peach lips turn upwards in a smile and her sea blue eyes meet his, "Hunter."

Sam bows, low and deep, "I thank thee, great Queen of the Fay."

Summoning a faerie—even a faerie queen—is actually quite simple. An incantation asking for an audience along with a "noble heart" is really all that is needed. Of course, there was no guarantee that she'd even show up, but here she is, in the flesh, standing on the line dividing the mortal realm from the realm of the Fay.

"Tell me," Her voice tinkles like bells, "Why hast thou summoned me?" She winks, "Do you wish to be with us?"

"Nay, great Queen," He interjects quickly, "Tis about a child."

Her brows furrow, "A babe?"

"Aye, great Queen," Sam continues, "She is in danger from a pixie."

Disgust alights on the Queen's face, "A pixie. They discredit my people."

"Please," Sam drops to his knees, "She needs your help, great Queen."

For the longest time, the Queen doesn't say anything. Then, finally, she places a warm hand on Sam's shoulder, "Aye. It will be done. But, Hunter, there is a price."

Ah.

The Queen holds out her hand, "Will you pay it?"

"Aye, great Queen."

He grabs her hand.

And then he is gone.

* * *

When he returns, it's sunset, he's bleeding from a sluggish cut on his arm, his face is bruised, a few of his ribs are cracked and he wants nothing more than to pass out for a small eternity.

"Sammy!"

Dean is there, helping him up and Sam groans as his brother's fingers touch the injuries.

"Shit," Dean curses, "What the fuck happened? I thought the Seelie court were the nice faeries!"

"They are," Sam wheezes as his brother helps him to the car, "This is just the price."

Anyone could ask the Fay for a favor. Only those pure of heart would be willing to prove how much they wanted it to the Court. While the Queen presided, anyone in the Court was allowed to challenge Sam to a duel. The idea being that if Sam truly had a pure heart, he would be able to withstand anything the Court could try to do to him.

He survived. He beat his opponents.

And in exchange, the Queen let him go, with a promise to remove the malevolent pixie.

"C'mon," Dean sighs, "Let's get you checked out."

Sam just nods.

* * *

One hospital stay later, they return to Brianna's house.

"It's amazing, really," Brianna's mom explains, a grin on her lips, "She never talks about Christine now. There have been no problems."

"That's great," Sam smiles, "Do you mind if I talk to her one more time?"

"Of course not." She holds open the door wider and the two brothers come inside, "She's right in the living room."

He finds her coloring.

"Hey, Brianna."

The smile she greets him with is one of a child, filled with wonder and excitement.

"Christine is nice!"

"Yeah, that's what I heard," Sam slowly sits next to her, his ribs burning a bit, but finally, he manages to get eye level with the young girl, "So, no more problems?"

"Nope!" Brianna chirps happily.

"Good." The faerie queen must have followed through on her promise. Now, with Brianna under the Court's protection, no more pixies would be able to enter the house. She'd be safe which made all the pain he went through worth it in the end.

"Jessica said you'd do it."

His heart skips a beat.

"Who?"

"Jessica," Brianna repeats, "The Lady in White." She points a finger towards the corner of the room and Sam's eyes dart to the space, but he sees nothing. Jessica could be the name of Brianna's imaginary friend, but Sam knows better. Even now, even after all that she went through, Jessica is still with him.

"Sammy?" Dean stands in the hallway, "You ready to go?"

Sam wipes away a tear, "Yeah. Ready."

Brianna hugs him as they leave and when they get into the Impala, Sam can't help but grin. It's rare they get happy endings in their line of work.

But today . . . today is a win.

He'll take it.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _By my count, I have 11 more prompts to get through so I will try to get those up in a timely manner. In the meantime, please let me know what you thought of this chapter. Thanks!_


End file.
